


Pollice Verso

by Grimmy88



Category: Left 4 Dead (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Alternate Universe - Historical, Ancient Roman AU, Ancient Rome, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Ellis has a loving family for once, Getting to Know Each Other, Gladiators, Historical Accuracy, Historical References, Historically accurate slavery, M/M, Misunderstandings, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, or as close as I can get it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 42,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25517977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grimmy88/pseuds/Grimmy88
Summary: The Roman AU nobody asked for! I teach ancient Roman history/archaeology and it was inevitable that I write something about it for this fandom."Elissaios is a half-Roman, half-Greek son of a senator whose fate is not his own to decide. There are expectations and duties even the third son must adhere to, even if every moment of it felt wrong.Nicator, once a Roman centurion, has fallen from grace with no money or future to his name. He turns to the one place where he can regain both: the sands of the Colosseum.Their paths will cross, leaving them both bereft and unsteady in their roles... leaving them both wanting things they'd never considered before."I know history may not be everyone's cup of tea, but I promise to make it entertaining and endearing so give it a chance!
Relationships: Ellis & Nick (Left 4 Dead), Ellis/Nick (Left 4 Dead)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 43





	1. I - Elissaios

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bigbraincel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigbraincel/gifts), [Ghostingby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostingby/gifts).



> There are some historical terms used in this story, as well as some societal conventions that I will list here to help with any confusion. I've written the story in a way where this shouldn't happen, usually by explaining them outright.
> 
> 1.) Pollice Verso - the title, it means "turn of the thumb", as in the sign given to decide a gladiator's fate. It was not down for death and up for life as so many people believe, we aren't actually sure which direction the thumb would've faced. The popular theory is that a thumb towards the neck would mean stab him and a downward thumb would be "let him live; throw down your weapon"
> 
> Pronounced Poll-ee-kay Ware-so
> 
> All Roman C's are hard sounds and all V's make the W sound.
> 
> 2.) Societal Conventions: There had often been a social divide in ancient Rome, none more so than during the Republic. The Patricians, the elites, versus the Plebeians, the common man. This story takes place under the empire, a time in which the Patricians had begun disappearing. There were still the rich and wealthy, including the senatorial rank, but these families had begun to be handpicked by the emperor. Ellis' family is one of these.
> 
> 3.) Roman Naming Conventions: the Romans used multiple names and for this story I've simplified it to three. The Praenomen (first name) is their 'true name', but unfortunately Roman men cycled between 15 of the same names (think John or James), so people were known more by their nickname. Second was their Gens, which was their family name (like our last name). Third was the Cognomen, which was their nickname.
> 
> Example: Aulus Verginius Elissaios (Pronounced Owl-oos Ware-gin-ee-oos El-e-say-ohs) - So he would be called Elissaios to differentiate him from his uncle who has the same 'true' name.
> 
> First born sons were named for their father, any younger sons for their grandfather or uncles. Women were only named after their gens (I know, it sucked), so for example if he had a sister (he doesn't) she would be named Verginia. His mother is foreign born so she still uses her name, though the Romans have nicknamed her for themselves as we'll see.
> 
> Slave names were usually just one name until they were freed by their masters and then they would take on his family gens in a way that let society know who his patron was; this is shown in the first chapter.
> 
> 4.) Military terms - I've simplified it as much as I can because this, and Roman politics, were very difficult. The two you need to know are Legatus Legionis which can be equated to a general and the Tribunus Laticlavius which is a young man of the senatorial rank sent to work under the general so he can learn to lead one day.
> 
> 5.) Political ranks - I'm not going to spend too much time on them in the story save for Elissaios' disinterest in them. Cursus honorum was a 'ladder' of positions men of senatorial rank were supposed to hold in order to be in the senate one day. Consuls (2) are at the top just under the Imperator (emperor), and the others rank below it with their own functions. Ex. Quaestors do financial work in the provinces and or prominent cities. I usually explain these positions as I go but I promise I won't overload your brain with it.
> 
> 6.) Clothing - male citizens wore different togas. Mostly the Toga Virilis which was the toga of men, but boys wore the toga praetexta (as did the senators, signified with a purple stripe)
> 
> Most people just wore tunics, and women usually wore the stola and other matronly clothing once they were wed.
> 
> Subligaculum - loincloth
> 
> Manica - segmented bronze or iron arm guard
> 
> 7.) Other terms: atrium, triclinium, tablinium are all rooms in a domus (roman house); culina is the kitchen and cubiculum is a bedroom
> 
> Gladiatrix - female gladiators
> 
> Servus/Serva/Servii - male slave, female slave, slaves; as this is a historically accurate story slavery is mentioned. I will be discussing the harshness of the practice but also the truths of the Roman model and how it differed from other slavery in world history.
> 
> Liberalia and Quinquatria - a few festivals, among many others, that will be explored in story
> 
> Infamia - undergoing the loss of legal and social standing in the Roman world
> 
> Here is a link in case you'd like to SEE the Gladiatorial styles, though I will go in depth with all of them as we move forward. https://qph.fs.quoracdn.net/main-qimg-294bff9f94139b7ed90282065c2309e0
> 
> (There are other types that I will discuss later, as well)
> 
> Any other terms I've covered in the story proper, but feel free to leave comments here or message me on tumblr at Grimmy88 with any questions! Enjoy!

The beginning of the end for Elissaios came not on the field of battle, but behind it. He wished, more than anything, that it _had_ come upon it. That his service would have had meaning, would have _given_ meaning and honor and glory to his family. To his empire.

Yet, that was not his fate. That seemed to be only reserved for the conscripts—once _plebeian_ by title only. They’d been without land and funds and so had pledged their life in the only way they could to their nation—by risking them at the frontiers so that civilization would continue to flourish.

Elissaios was not a fool. He knew those men he’d seen, who had served under him although he was so much younger and inexperienced, had had little choice in the matter. With no land, no money, and no ties to other ventures, serving their twenty-year charge was the way to ensure a future for themselves. Once their term was finished, they would be named veterans and granted plots of land in the far reaches of the empire. Still, no matter where they were flung, whether it be the chill of Britannia or the multicultural warmth of Africa, the land would be theirs to do with what they pleased.

So long as they survived long enough to earn it.

Under their reigning _Imperator_ Publius Aelius Hadrianus those men stood a better chance of that. His predecessor, Marcus Ulpis Traianus, had expanded the _limes_ of their empire further than any other. His son had commenced his reign seeking to coalesce and unify the Romans within those borders rather than push them beyond breaking.

Elissaios had expected there to be ridicule for their _Imperator_ , yet the current peace of his reign had not seemed to bother his fellow soldiers. That may have been because of Hadrianus’ own service before being named heir and his continued support of his army. As he enjoyed travelling, many of his journeys brought him directly into contact with the camps of his generals, whereupon he would dress in military gear and walk amongst the men. It was even said he made bread with them.

He wasn’t sure about the veracity of that claim, but he wanted to believe it.

He, and those around him, may have been biased, however. Elissaios had been deployed to serve within the _Legio I Minervia_ as part of his journey, essentially, into manhood. It was the same their _Imperator_ had led during his father’s Dacian Wars more than twenty years ago. He took pride in that. He’d _taken pride_ in it for three years. He wanted to keep taking pride in it.

But his father’s name wouldn’t let him. His father’s status as a senator wouldn’t let him. Not even the fact that he had two older brothers would free him from the expectations of his class.

Not even the open knowledge of his mixed heritage would free him.

He knew this all, just as he knew there was no avoiding the summons to the tent of their _Legatus Legionis_ where he would be honorably dismissed. And so, although he hesitated in his step, he made the short walk to meet with his superior officer. Along the way he let his eyes drift over the camp to memorize every gray, brown, and red detail. To etch in his mind the look of his comrades dressed in their armor and equipped with their weapons. To remember how they convened together around fires and food.

He did this all so that he would remember in the crisp, white marble of Roma what true companionship was averse to all the pomp and etiquette and swirling words prone to his station.

Outside the large tent there were two standards. They were red, as many were, but he had always thought their legion more blessed for having Minerva as their patron. Now he looked upon her and, although she was simply cloth and thread, he prayed all the same for her to bestow some wisdom on one as lacking as he. He thought on the cleverness she’d gifted Ulysses, and though as a Roman he’d had to hide his admiration for the legendary figure, he hoped he could channel such a skill now.

The problem was whether or not his words would work on the man who mattered.

_Legatus_ Flaccus was waiting for him inside and his bright eyes became more so when he spotted him. “Here he is now.”

Elissaios caught a glance of the other soldiers in his peripheral where they stood dutifully to the side. Two he considered his peers though he outranked them as _Tribunus Laticlavius_. Just as he’d been, they’d been sent to war to better themselves. These were the two newest and like him, they often hovered around their _Legatus_ for educational purposes.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” Elissaios asked because it was expected of him.

“I did,” his superior confirmed. There were several parchments and scrolls spread out before him, illuminated by the daylight flooding through the open flap of his tent. It was obvious he was grateful for the distraction from all that written stress. “I wanted to congratulate you on a term well served. You rose well above your station to honor this legion. Word will be sent back to your father and the senate.” He held up one of the scrolls. “In fact, you’ll be bringing it with you. There’s quite a few of you going home tomorrow.”

The young soldier looked among the men in the room, especially the elders. He worried his lip and tried not to feel shame at the open envy in their eyes.

“I give thanks to you,” Elissaios said dutifully, “but if I’ve been such an asset would it not be better if I stayed?”

His _Legatus_ gave a pregnant pause and he could see the looks traded within the silent air of the tent.

He tried to take advantage of it. “The times I’ve led my small contingents we’ve completed our tasks successfully. I know the men better than the others of my station,” here he gave an apologetic look to his newest peers, “and I think there’s still more I can do for the legion.”

Flaccus did not answer, instead one of his staff cleared his throat to redirect everyone’s attention.

“Aulus Verginius Elissaios,” he recited. “You’ve served your time as _Tribunus Laticlavius_.” He lifted one bushy eyebrow. “Actually, you’ve served one year _over_ your time. Now your duty draws you back to Roma.”

“I know,” he acquiesced slowly, “but—”

“But?” the same man barked.

Elissaios knew he was meant to feel chastised, but that wasn’t the case until their commander interrupted with his own curt order.

“Leave us.” He received no outright refusals, though he did have to aim his glare around the tent to get the armored men to shuffle out. When they were gone and far enough to be out of hearing range, his _Legatus_ motioned with one hand. “Step away from the entrance.”

The younger man obeyed, clasping his hands in front of himself and focusing his eyes on the desk rather than his superior.

“Elissaios,” the other Roman sighed, no longer in the stern tone of his _Legatus_ , but in the weary tone of his uncle. “These worries needed to be shared with me privately.”

“How?” the soldier asked. “Your staff never leaves you!” Upon receiving a shake of the head, he sighed and relaxed his stance. “I wanted to talk to you about this _days_ ago. Please, you can’t send me away.”

His uncle gave a sigh of his own. “This is beyond me and you know that. It is not fair to ask the impossible.”

“How can it be impossible for the _Legatus Legionis?_ ”

“Even I must yield to tradition, not to mention the decisions of the senate.”

“You mean _senator_ ,” Elissaios accused.

The commander was quiet a moment. “You and I both know how your father misses you.”

“Do I not honor him here?”

“You _have_ ,” the other man told him, “but you must return home to continue the _cursus honorum_.”

“I’m twenty-three!” Elissaios protested. “He made me wait until I was twenty to accept this position, now he calls me home to another I can’t hold for seven years!”

His uncle rounded his desk to approach him, reaching out to grasp his shoulders as if that would steady him. “It is possible to hold that station at twenty-eight—”

“Oh, good, I’ll only have to wait five years for something I don’t want,” the younger man interrupted bitterly.

“Nephew,” came the chastisement. Fingers lifted his chin so that their eyes could meet. “Work your way through the ladder. It’s the only way to become _Legatus_.”

“I don’t need that,” he muttered mulishly. “I’m not—holding those offices isn’t for me. You know that. We all know that.” He grabbed onto the older man’s wrists. “Procus and Felix are already on that path, he doesn’t _need_ me to follow. I could stay here. With you.”

And he couldn’t see why not. His older brothers, full-blooded Romans as they were, had followed in their father’s footsteps. They’d done the military service necessary and now they were excelling in the political. They both liked it. They were both skilled at it. They were everything Elissaios couldn’t be. Everything he didn’t want to be in the best of ways. He’d accepted that a long time ago without shame.

He didn’t understand why the rest of his family couldn’t.

“This is the way of things,” his uncle explained.

“I’m the _third_ son _and_ by his second wife,” Elissaios stated facts his uncle already knew well. “What could I do that my brothers haven’t already?” He did not say it resentfully, for he held none against his siblings. He’d grown up idolizing them—he still did, and he knew he always would. But his place would never be theirs. He felt that deeper than anything else.

And those thoughts led him to turn to his uncle in desperation. “You could adopt me. As Caesar did Augustus. As Traianus did Hadrianus.” He shook his head at the pained look that overtook the older man’s face. “He’ll listen to you. Am I not named for you?”

Flaccus moved their hands so that he could grip his nephew’s forearms. “You would break your father’s heart. You know you are his favorite.”

The young soldier did know it and for the first time since beginning his arguments he felt ashamed. He averted his eyes.

“Have you not read my will?” his uncle asked. “Does it not say you are to inherent my wealth? My villa?”

“That’s not what I—"

“I know this but listen to my words: you are going back to Roma. You will hold the proper offices and then, if you choose, you can become a _Legatus_ in your own right.”

“But here I feel as if I can actually _do_ something. I can become known for more than my name. I can help people.” And he had a perfect example for the argument. “Just like Centurion Nonus Umbricia Nicator did in the east.”

The man was something of a hero to the young noble. Naïve as he was, he understood that as men their upbringing could not have been more different. Umbricia had been born a plebeian, and a very poor one at that. Thus, joining the military had been the only way to earn money, let alone land to live upon. Umbricia had been more determined than others who had made the same choice. That drive and his skill in battle and visceral understanding of men, warfare, and the reality of both had propelled him through the legion until he’d been named Centurion.

He’d achieved much while fighting in the Parthian campaigns. Immediately after he’d been sent to Iudaea.

“…I can see the appeal in admiring such a man, but you often boast of him to me while omitting the end of his tale,” his uncle said, interrupting his musing. By the tone of his voice he was weary of explaining away the comparison. “In the end he was wounded in battle—valiantly, yes, but because of this he was able to retire _early_ back to Roma.”

The younger man heard his teeth click as he clenched his jaw shut. He knew the argument was lost besides which his font had been all but drained.

For what it mattered—and it _did_ —his _Legatus_ looked grieved to have crushed his spirit. “Elissaios, understand that my deepest wish for you lies beyond the Roman army.”

“I know,” his nephew replied. And he did. His uncle wanted for him what he’d wanted in his own youth–a family and a freedom from most of the expectations of his station. Flaccus had had those things in his grasp because he was born a second son. Briefly he’d had a wife and even briefer he’d had children. But no physicians or prayers had been able to save them.

And so, his uncle had run. He’d folded back into the military. Back into the service of Roma. He’d been given command of one of the more dangerous legions located in Germania. And he’d been given accolades and glory. So loud and numerous were they that it was almost as if the words had reached Roma long before any courier had carried them in. Elissaios remembered growing proud and boastful when hearing people talk of his relative’s accomplishments.

He didn’t know about wanting to create his own family. He certainly didn’t know about going back to the city and immersing himself back into all the pomp and finely tuned social rules. …And truthfully, he didn’t know about wanting to be a soldier all his life either.

It’s just the one role in which he’d excelled, so why not make a life of it? There was no way he could bring honor to his _gens_ or his city by mucking up some legal jargon or paperwork so why not stay and guard its borders?

But at the same time, it would have been a lie to deny the homesickness he felt for his friends and family.

Ultimately, what could he do with all these thoughts? All his discord and questions meant nothing when faced with his duty. As listless and bewildered as he was by that duty.

And so, the beginning of the end of his sense of purpose came in that tent.

He left the next day, as he was instructed, with his uncle bidding him a farewell kiss on his forehead with a shared sting behind their eyes that they refused to comment upon. Publicly, he saw him off with none of the pain etched on his face and Elissaios took his cue and hid his away, too. Though, he didn’t dare look back again until he knew their fort would be out of sight.

From there the journey was unremarkable. He’d been mesmerized when he’d first set north towards Germania. He’d been astounded by the change of scenery, the change of weather, the change of _language_. It had all been so different the further he’d ventured.

And now it was all so familiar the closer he got.

He took some comfort in that. In being able to understand the people they saw, even if their accented Latin made his ears strain. Though, Elissaios did not jest with the other men. In fact, he was sure they said much the same of him when he could not hear for how heavily his own accent peppered the language of his so-called homeland.

That’s not to say they did it with any ill-will. Most Romans felt a kinship with the Graecoi, no matter how often they liked to mock them. The young soldier figured the reverse was also the same. He couldn’t say for sure because, although he’d been born in Graecian lands, he remembered nothing of it.

He could base the theory off his mother’s comments, however.

The thought of her cheered him. No matter what uncertainty he was courting, her smile would counteract his feeling of displacement.

The journey to Roma took just short of a month, though that was impressive for overland travel with Flora once again encouraging the land to burgeon. That made him glad the trip had delivered he and his group home just before the ides of Martius.

All the best festivals were in the spring and summer months. He was at least very glad he’d be able to partake in them. They celebrated some in camp, but it was very different drinking amongst your peers averse to friends and other celebrants. Somehow the latter made the illness the next morning worth it for his blurred memories of fuzzy colors and laughing faces.

Their retinue came in from the north one late morning, but even from afar he could see the shine of the city’s marble between its tiled roofs. He could see the landmarks and clearly envision way the street looked in front of each. And when they made their way through Roma herself, he saw that not much had changed.

_Imperator_ Hadrianus’ building campaigns were still being continued or finished. Elissaios had seen most go up before his tenure in the army. That was because both men had left the capital in the same year, though his reasons had not been as grand as the _Imperator’s_.

He accompanied the group to the _forum_ where they met with representatives at the _rostra_ , the ancient podium on which speakers would share their decrees with the city. Once he was free, he took some time walking through the busiest part of their city, admiring the temples and meeting halls and all the people who scurried in between. Over their din it was hard to hear anything, but he thought he had—and then he became sure of it once his name was called a second and then third time.

Elissaios was not a common name and while his father was well known, it had been three years since anyone had seen him in the city. Never mind in his armor.

“ _Patronus_ Elissaios!”

Perhaps that was why he’d missed it the first time. He hadn’t remembered becoming anyone’s patron while he was in Germania. However, when the man’s face came into view, he realized what had happened.

“Spurius!” he greeted, reaching out to clasp the taller man’s forearm.

This took the other by surprise. “You—”

But Elissaios interrupted the protest: “You’re a _libertus_ now!” He wouldn’t lessen his grin, not in the face of this good news.

Spurius had been his father’s body _servus_ ; a companion who had followed him everywhere to help keep track of his schedule and business. After many years of service the family head had always promised to free him, as well as some of the others in their household. The talk of it had increased just before Elissaios had left and he was glad to see that it had come to fruition.

He was even gladder to see the small child, no older than two years held in his friend’s free arm.

“My father—”

“Is a good _patronus_ ,” Spurrius assured. “I stand before you Lucius Verginius Lucii _libertus_ Spurius.”

“And your son stands a true Roman citizen,” Elissaios congratulated. “…If he can stand yet.”

The freedman laughed. “He can.” He bounced the toddler a little higher, trying to make him turn his plump face from where he’d buried it in his father’s shoulder. “He’s shy.”

“That’s alright,” the soldier assured, distracted by the figure approaching from behind his friend. It was a figure he knew well, though her shape had changed a bit.

“ _Patronus_ Elissaios,” she greeted, cheeks rosy and bunched by her smile.

“Clementia,” he greeted back, taking her hands and leaning in to kiss her cheeks. She was Verginia Lucii _liberta_ Clementia now and very, very pregnant. “This is wonderful! Juno has blessed you.”

She cupped his face. “We’re glad to see you safe. Your father was joyous about your return.”

Elissaios tried not to blush as he had when he was younger when she used to squeeze his cheeks. “That’s where I’m headed now. I guess the house will be filled with new faces?”

“Some,” Spurius agreed. “Shall we walk with you?”

“I wouldn’t want to delay you…”

The freedwoman shook her head. “We’re just out for some air, while I can still move.” She drew one hand lovingly over her bump.

Elissaios smiled at her and offered his arm, which she took shyly. She knew as well as he did that there were eyes upon them, but such fondness was not odd between those who had lived together as long as they had. And it would seem less odd still if anyone had paused a moment to hear them speak as siblings, as if there had been no time spent apart between them.

On his street he bid them farewell with a promise to seek them out again once he had settled. He was more than curious as to the home his father had procured for them, after all. But if he delayed getting to _his_ home his mother would pull him down by his ear, no matter that he stood taller than her. Most men did, even those of small stature such as Elissaios, and yet that had never stopped her from speaking her mind nor following through with what she thought right.

If she had been anyone else’s wife, it may have landed her in some trouble.

She was the one he sought out first when his city home came into view. It was lovely as ever, with flamboyant colors and statuary decorating the façade. He avoided walking through the primary door, opting instead to walk around and through the small gate in back that he might get into the garden. It would be time for her to begin caring for it, a task meant for _servi_ and yet one in which she always took part.

He was right to go there first.

His mother was dressed in a very unladylike tunic hoisted high over her knees so that they could be firmly planted in the dirt she was clearing away by hand. Her skin was dirty up her forearms and she had smeared brown a bit here and there over the white fabric as well as her face. Her hair was pulled back, but strands were falling about her neck and shoulders as a testament to her dogged work.

She was as beautiful as the day he’d left.

He walked slowly and quietly so he wouldn’t alert her just yet. He watched as she dug, a care behind the sure ferocity of her movements. There was a young woman helping, one he’d never seen before and thus, he had to assume, a new _serva_. They were speaking in the language of his mother’s homeland, which made Elissaios happy for her.

Eventually, the new face lifted. She was young, dark haired and eyed, with a round face and small features. Even so he could see the surprise there clearly.

“Era,” she murmured to her _domina_.

His mother glanced to her and then followed her gaze to where her son stood, smile growing. She rose immediately, tossing down her tools as she did. She wiped her palms carelessly on her tunic as she stepped from the open plot towards him.

“You better have sought me out before your father,” she told him in Graecian.

Elissaios grinned and rushed to diminish the space between them, throwing his arms about her waist to heft her up. She smacked him for it, and he put her back on her feet so he could hunch down to bury his face in her neck. She held him there for a moment and then withdrew to cup his face and no doubt make it as dirty as hers. Her blue eyes were glassy, and he knew his fared much the same from the telltale prickle within them.

She laughed and pulled him in so she could kiss his forehead and then each of his eyelids. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” he answered immediately, feeling shame in his heart that he’d sought to stay away.

But it had not been from her, or his father, or his siblings. It hadn’t even been from Roma.

She stepped back, hands lingering on his arms even as her gaze took in the sight of him in his military garb. “You look… _Roman_.”

Her son laughed wetly. “Am I not?”

She gave a considering hum. “I am glad you can take it off now.”

“I’ll still look Roman in a _toga_ ,” he teased as she touched over his face again.

“My son,” his mother said, turning him. “This is Phaedra. She has replaced Clementia.”

Elissaios nodded his head, knowing that any kinder greeting would have the _servi_ gossiping amongst themselves later that night.

“Go, prepare some food and drink.”

“Era,” she obeyed quickly.

She came back with more than just the bread and fruit Elissaios had been expecting. Apparently the new _servi_ were a curious bunch because two men trailed behind Phaedra, one with plates she could have easily carried herself and the other with a jug of water and cups. Together they set out three place settings on the garden table with a small meal of bread, dates, and honey between them.

They then stepped back and waited, the two men openly scrutinizing their new charge.

Elissaios didn’t have time to greet them nor feed their curiosity because his father’s voice purged their presence from his mind.

“My son has arrived not through the front door but sneaking in the back! I wonder if this is a lesson learned from those northern barbarians!” He stepped out, dressed in his finest _toga virilis_ ostensibly because he had yet to meet with his clients for the morning. The moment his eyes landed on his son his arms outstretched as wide as his smile. “Though how can I fault you for seeking out your beloved mother first? Had you not I may have shunned you from my home.”

Elissaios didn’t believe that for a moment but he shared in the other man’s laughter all the same as he was swept up into those arms. His father stood taller than him, just like his brothers. In fact, there was very little he seemed to have gotten from his father save his chin and jawline. Everything else seemed to be of his mother or her family. Procus and Felix enjoyed teasing that it was why he was the favorite.

His father, Lucius Verginius Celsus, stepped back and made to cup his face as his mother had done but his hands paused. Then he laughed and looked to his wife. “Aglaia, you have made a mess of him.”

“He is accustomed to war, he does not mind,” she retorted.

Celsus laughed and glanced to Phaedra. “Water basin and cloths.”

The young woman bowed her head and disappeared inside.

His _pater familias_ turned to him, eyes shining and motioned to the table. “Eat and tell me everything.”

Elissaios didn’t, but he told him enough.

The most difficult aspect of being home was not one he expected: he couldn’t sleep. He and his retinue had travelled throughout the night in order to arrive home early, forsaking rest in order to see the faces of their loved ones all the sooner. His parents had been understanding in his need for the calm of his room, and in his mother’s case insistent, but somehow the bed beneath his back was too soft. The cushion for his head softer still.

It made sense, he knew, for how accustomed he’d become to the hard pallets and cots of the army.

Just as he’d become accustomed to the sound of his peers around him at all times. Now it seemed he needed to adjust once again to the sounds of the city. To the sounds of his family’s _servi_ moving about their home. To the sound of his father and his clients. To the sound of his parents talking softly in the hall.

It would be a gradual thing, he knew, but he was happy when he managed to at least fall to slumber for a brief time. It was not enough, that he felt plainly when he rose, but he hoped that meant he would rest all the more deeply that night.

His clothing and belongings had not been moved from his room, and so he found his _toga virilis_ and wrapped it about himself. Somehow it felt heavier than his military garb ever had. Somehow it rubbed his scars worse than his armor ever had. He pressed his hand and the fabric into the biggest of them all, a long-healed and superficial cut he’d gotten over his left side. Honors had been bestowed upon him for it, though he now knew how undeserved ill-discipline and rashness were.

When his sandals were tightened in place, he stood upright to look at the small mirror on the stand against one of his walls. He’d shaved his stubble away after their breakfast, knowing that he would have to go out and face the city with his father. Although their _Imperator_ had made bearded faces more popular, Elissaios had never been able to grow one so dense. Somehow anything too long made his otherwise handsome face look ungainly. That had always seemed odd to him—his jaw was made for it but apparently his lips were not.

So, he assumed the style of the younger men and shaved. He was glad, however, that Hadrianus was an admirer of Greacian styles for there was no taming the voluminous curls on his head. Not that he would ever want to. He liked that it differentiated him from his brothers.

His father wasn’t in the _atrium_ , nor the _tablinium_ , nor the _triclinium_. He wasn’t even in the _culina_ when he popped his head around the wall. That drove him out to the garden, and then even further back to the entrances of the _servi_ quarters. He hadn’t really expected to find him there, so he wasn’t surprised when his search proved fruitless.

He was distracted from walking away by a loud grunt and an even louder intake of breath. His feet felt as though Terra herself were holding them to her breast. He almost wished she were, that he might turn with her guidance and continue his quest. But when he stepped his curiosity was the only thing leading him towards the last _cubiculum_.

The wooden door was slightly ajar, which was enough for him to see inside. Almost immediately, he felt in the wrong for it.

The two male _servi_ from earlier were inside, nude and red faced. One was curled over the back of the other, his arms acting as a cradle that steadied his thrusts. With each one the man beneath him tried to smother his gasps.

Elissaios felt the heat fill both his face and gut.

When the lovers’ lips met, he turned away, ashamed at spying their intimate moment.

As he made his way through the garden he wondered if his father knew. If he’d bought them together or if their meeting under this roof had been a ploy of Venus. He thought on whether he should mention what he’d seen so that the pair might not be separated in the future. It would be a question for his mother, for their _domus_ and the affairs within it were hers to rule.

Still, he shook his head and smile away, hoping the two’s risky daytime tryst wouldn’t get them into trouble.

As he walked he willed his face to cool, unsure why he was so shaken. _Servi_ and foreigners had always been freer in their choice of lovers. And it certainly wasn’t as though his reputation, or that of any other high born, male citizen, would be tarnished for lying with a male lover.

Only lying beneath one could do that.

Elissaios’ face burned all the brighter. He tried to press a hand over his eyes as if he could expel the thought by touch.

It wasn’t as if it was unheard of—he’d caught lovers when he’d been stationed in Germania, after all. It was just that it had been rare. And those men hadn’t been a senator’s son.

And those men hadn’t wanted to even _look_ at a senator’s son.

“Elissaios?” his mother asked.

He spun to her quickly, having missed the sound of her footsteps for how loud his improper thoughts had been. “Mother?”

Her curved eyes searched his face. “If you are unwell, I will tell Celsus the games can wait. There will be more later this week. They’ll be even grander the following.”

“I am not unwell,” he protested. “I know he’s told the other senators that I would be there… not to mention Procus and Felix. …He also said there’s a surprise for me, so I have to go.”

Her mouth flattened into a line and the quirk to her eyebrows betrayed her doubt in his words.

“…The two new male _servi_ ,” he prefaced slowly, changing the subject. “Do you know that they’re lovers?”

“I do,” Aglaia said simply. Then her face cleared into amused understanding. “Then they are together instead of working with Tullo and Sethos.”

Elissaios started. “I don’t mean to—”

“Quiet and calm, my dearest,” she assured. “I will allow them their moment for now—but do not worry, I am aware of their relations.”

Her son wanted to ask more but did not want to appear as if he wanted to know. It was a conundrum he couldn’t solve and so he kept his mouth shut, choosing to nod in response.

“Your father was caught by a client outside.” His mother waved him on. “Go rescue him and I will see you both later.”

He bowed low to kiss her forehead and receive one in turn, then he went to his father’s side. He looked more than grateful to receive him and, relieved from his client, they walked together towards the _Amphitheatrum Flavium_. Middle of the day as it was, the crowds were at their largest. Most of the people were working either in the markets or in the construction projects their _Imperator_ had commissioned.

Elissaios took it all in as they walked, in awe over how much Hadrianus had aspired to during his time in Roma.

“He’s journeying again, you know,” his father told him.

“We had heard,” the younger man answered. “In Africa?”

“To do there what he did in Achaea. He is expected back for the summer months.”

“And then what?”

The senator hummed in thought. “I imagine he’ll continue on. He enjoys travelling and wishes to strengthen the empire.”

“…Do you think he is?” Elissaios asked, head tilted.

His father thought on that a moment, too. “I know that the people of his empire appreciate his feet walking beyond Roma. Many appreciate his building projects and ideas. These things bring stability and peace.”

“But there are things you disagree with?”

“Not much.” And it was beneficial for the senators to have an _Imperator_ that trusted in their decisions enough to travel. It was no wonder they were vocal in their support.

Elissaios did not voice those thoughts. He saved it instead for his wonderment at the crowd outside the amphitheater. Many were milling about, socializing or getting food to enjoy alongside the shows within. Some were waiting outside the _ludus_ , the housing and training area for the gladiators so that they might catch a look at the warriors. While some _would_ be leaving from there, more were probably held under the _harena_ in the _hypogeum_ , the system of tunnels and lifts situated beneath the sands. _Imperator_ Domitianus had created it so that both men and animals could be stored beneath the crowds and awaiting their moments in the sunlight.

The former soldier remembered being impressed the first time he had seen a tiger pop up from one of the trap doors, snarling and spitting.

Now he was more impressed at the splendor of the amphitheater. He knew that the wealth of the east had paid for it, but still it awed him to see the beauty of its marble coating. To see the numerous statues standing in grandeur in each arch that lined its circumference. To see the columns change as the building reached upwards—from the simple Doric, to the elegant Ionic, to the beautiful Corinthian. To see the awning pulled back to let the spectators enjoy Sol’s kiss on their skin.

For all the death and struggle inside, he couldn’t help but think it beautiful.

“Come,” his father urged. He reached inside his _toga_ and withdrew three broken pottery shards. He handed one of these _ostracon_ to his son that he might see his section and seat number.

By the looks of it the three seats were very close to the sands, though the senator would be much closer given that the group were given a special viewing box not too far from the _Imperator’s_ , though his seat would be empty today.

The man at the entrance allowed Celsus to pass, recognizing his senatorial robes though he did check the shard in the younger man’s palm. Inside the games had already begun, though they had yet to get to the more interesting events. They always began with ‘warm up’ shows. These usually involved the infirm fighting with wooden weaponry, animal hunts, or fights between the _gladiatrix_.

At the moment it seemed to be a combination between the latter two. A few _gladiatrix_ armed with bows were showcasing their aim by hunting some boar from the relative safety of their chariots. One in particular was fairly impressive, proving her skill to be the highest of the archers.

Elissaios had been right about the seats. They were just two rows back from the senatorial box. Close enough that the animals and fighters within could make eye contact with him if they were not fighting for survival and wealth.

The seats beside his own were empty—two he knew were for his brothers, but the others would be filled by nobles of the higher ranks. It was a sign that they were early because most people waited until the main event: to see the gladiators upon whom they bet their coins.

Celsus turned to him once they arrived at his seat. “Enjoy the show and the surprise, my son. It will make _Quinquatria_ all the better for you.” He laid a touch to his bicep and then made back the way they came. “I will go find your brothers, though I’m certain they’ll be late as usual.”

“Procus has a family now,” Elissaios laughed. He would’ve been more disappointed if they’d been there early.

“And what is Felix’s excuse?” his father wondered philosophically as he wandered away.

The young noble shook his head and sat, which was a privilege he could enjoy with his seat being so close. Those in the upper rows would have to stand to see the fights. Even then, they wouldn’t be able to make out the sweat and blood the way he and his brothers would. It would certainly be a good thing, being so near, if whatever his surprise was necessitated _seeing_ the combatants.

For long moments he watched the archers complete their hunt. After the boars came the lions and though he marveled at the skilled shots he thought it a shame to see their death to prove what could have been shown on wooden figures. Or goats. At least the boars and goats would be used to feed those who were hungry.

Once the hunts were finished, the attendants rushed the sands to clean away the mess. During that time more spectators filed in, knowing that after a few more _gladiatrix_ fights they would get to see the men for whom they’d been waiting. One of these people was an older man, undeniably of higher social rank, handsome with dark hair and eyes. There were two other men with him, perhaps clients but they seemed lost in their own adamant discussion. They shuffled to their seats, but only the first nodded at Elissaios in greeting.

When the young man returned it, those brown eyes did a double take. Then they searched him from his hair to his feet. When he sat, he was close enough that the former soldier knew he would be drawn into conversation.

“I feel as though your face is familiar,” the man remarked. His breath was laden with the scent of wine. “Yet I do not recall seeing you in these seats in recent months.”

Elissaios did not want to reply, but it was a courtesy he had to uphold for his father’s name. “You haven’t. I have not seen the games, nor Roma, for three years.”

The man tilted his head in the younger man’s peripheral, face lightening in triumph at having brokered an interaction. “And yet I know your face—though it would be hard to entirely forget such a handsome one.”

Elissaios clenched his jaw minutely.

“Your accent is odd, however.” The man shifted to face him fully, hand on his leg as if to block their one-sided conversation from his friends. “You are Roman? Who is your father?”

His question was phrased rudely and his elder knew it. He held up his hands in apology and shook his head.

“Forgive me. My name is Licinius Betua Durus.” He felt as though he’d heard the name once, long ago before he came of age. He tried to force his mind to recall it, though the recollection seemed to be scattered in the vestiges of a foggy memory.

Forgoing that avenue, he followed another in the hopes that by sharing his name and lineage he could escape the disconcerting nature of the man’s presence. “I am Aulus Verginius Elissaios, son of Senator Lucius Verginius Celsus.”

“Ah!” Durus laughed. “I see it now! I have come to know your father and brothers well these last few years. You have his jaw… though it is clear you inherited your mother’s beauty. As well as her Graecian accent.”

He hated how instinctively defensive he became regarding his heritage. He’d had to grow accustomed to the taunts of the other noble boys in his youth, but when he’d teased them right back regarding their thick accents when learning Graecoi it had been he who had gotten in trouble. He could not help that his Latin was both tinged by his Graecian _and_ rural, southern upbringing. His father had raised him for years in a villa not too far from Neapolis. There he’d been taught by the most educated _servi_ but also his mother, who more often than not had always wanted to speak her native language.

And he could never, and would never, deny her that.

Durus waited a beat and then decided to fill the silence once again. “…Then you have just returned from your service abroad? As a _Tribunus Laticlavius_ , correct? Where were you stationed?”

“I served in Bonna, Germania for _Legio I Minervia_.”

The fact seemed to impress his elder. “That is the same legion Hadrianus led.” He looked Elissaios over again with a drunken, growing smile. “I thank you for your service.”

Elissaios nodded and gave a tight smile of his own. Then he stood, ostensibly to get a better view as the _gladiatrix_ came out to finally fight hand to hand.

The man rose with him.

“Still,” he said, “to think they sent you at so young to such a contentious part of the empire. Was your _Legatus_ a family friend?”

Elissaios frowned, eyes following one of the _gladiatrix_. She was lean and wiry, dark skinned and ferocious against her opponent. He wished he could unleash her upon the man inching ever closer beside him. “Aulus Verginius Flaccus,” he answered. “My uncle.”

“Your namesake,” Durus observed. “A safe decision made by your father.”

The younger noble bristled. He was tempted to argue just how hard it had been, no matter who his _Legatus_ had been. To tell a man who’d probably served in a safe province, tucked away in some tent writing letters or ferrying them between commanders what it was like to serve in a truly dangerous territory. He could share stories of the barbarians or the harsh winters. Of the biting cold and lonely nights. He could hike up his _toga_ and show the scar across his flank to attest to just how safe a decision it had been.

But somehow, he knew his efforts would be dismissed and diminished.

So, his mind alighted on the one argument he could make. “I was not sent too young. I’ve heard of others going to their duty at eighteen.”

Durus turned his body more fully towards him, partially blocking his view of the arena and the fight. “And you were not?”

“I was sent at twenty,” he explained. And only then because his father requested it of him.

That surprised the other man. “You are twenty-three?”

Elissaios nodded and shuffled to his brother’s seat in time to see the woman he’d been rooting for declared the winner. There were some celebratory shouts, though they were few. He seemed to be the only noble clapping for her.

Durus certainly wasn’t, because he was still staring at the younger man. The former soldier turned his head to face him full on now, knowing his ire was obvious in his brow.

“Forgive me,” the other man said out of politeness and not truth. “I’m marveling over how you’ve retained your youthful beauty. I’m envious.”

Elissaios felt confusion and shame and pride heat his cheeks.

“Is it such an offense to be called beautiful?” Durus asked.

It was a difficult question to answer. He had thought the older man questioning him to get a rise out of him. To get information on his father. To play some game in the political scheme of their city. He’d thought those assessing eyes had been studying him for weakness, not for pleasure. Not in desire.

He felt the inflammation take root in his chest, a mixture of shame and something else stoked by the memory of the scene he’d stumbled upon earlier.

He could not answer for the fear of being considered vain. Nor did he want to welcome anymore of the older man’s advances, now that he realized them for what they were. But still, he could not understand it. Noble men did not approach each other in open desire. No matter where their preferences lay, neither could afford the rumors if anyone found out nor the shame that would be placed upon them. And Elissaios, as the younger, would be the one with the tarnished reputation.

It occurred to him that perhaps this was Durus’ goal… but then, he hadn’t known who he was until they’d begun talking. Was his attraction genuine, then? Had the wine freed his tongue from the confines of his position?

“Surely others have complimented you. Half-Graecian as you are, I’m certain you’ve been compared to the statues your people are so famous for.”

He had not.

The sands were being cleared again and the amphitheater seats were filling rapidly. Elissaios hoped the din of the crowd would eventually drown out any further conversation.

“I feel silly now,” Durus commented. “I wish I had remembered sooner. We _have_ met before.”

“Forgive me,” Elissaios said politely, “but I do not remember.”

“Oh, that’s not needed. It was a long time ago, during the _Liberalia_ you came of age.” The older man nodded and looked off into the crowd. “You were very excited and distracted by your brothers. We met very briefly as I spoke to your father—I couldn’t believe your age then, either. At fifteen boys are awkward and lanky and you were not. Must be the Graecoi in you.” His drunken smile upturned again. “Is that not an aspect of all their stories—their young men have some sort of ephemeral beauty to them?”

“I tripped over a discarded _toga praetexta_ and split my lip on one of the steps leading to Saturnus’ temple,” was his dismissal.

Durus laughed. It startled his friends and though their conversation resumed a moment later, it was muted.

“I refer to your _appearance_ , and I stand by my observation.” He motioned towards the empty, luxurious seat their _Imperator_ would have occupied had he been in country. “Is Hadrianus himself not bewitched by a Graecian boy?”

Elissaios felt his body tense at the comparison. _Imperator_ Hadrianus, married though he was, had felt no qualms in hiding his attraction to younger men. But now there were whispers that his chosen beloved, his _favorite_ , was more than that.

Up in his fort in Germania that’s all the whispers had been—rumors and stories. He’d never seen the boy nor Hadrianus interact and he doubt he ever would. He hadn’t been in Roma to hear the tales first-hand. All he’d heard were the scoffs and jests of the officers and the crude remarks of some of the soldiers.

He’d kept his own opinion to himself. It was not his place to question an _Imperator_ as distinguished as theirs. Nor was it his to hope that his feelings towards some boy he didn’t know were genuine.

“I do not know,” he lied.

“Hadrianus does love all things Graecian,” one of the friends behind Durus’ shoulders remarked, rather loudly, “it’s no wonder he’s taken one of them as a lover.”

The nobleman beside hummed in consideration. “He is particularly fond of Athenian philosophy and their way of life.” He glanced to Elissaios. “Perhaps he emulates their _relations_.”

He was referring to _pederasty_. They both knew it was a long-outdated custom and one vilified in Roman society. A more apt comparison would have been the Theban band, the legendary male lovers who fought and died for one another. Especially since their _Imperator’s_ lover had passed into manhood and was not all that much younger than Elissaios himself.

“Though they are very well educated… Speaking of which, now that you’ve returned, I suspect your father has plans to prepare you for the office of _Quaestor_.”

“He does,” Elissaios lied again.

“Truly?” Durus wondered. “I would have gladly offered to be your educator—”

The insinuation was all too clear, and the former soldier rounded on him, his blush turned indignant and his face contorted in embarrassed fury. “You are speaking to a senator’s _son_. If you cannot handle your wine—”

Unexpectedly, Durus drew up to his full height, stepping closer so that he could peer down the thick bridge of his nose at the younger man. Judging by the glint in his eyes, he relished the physical advantage. “Do you know to whom _you_ speak, boy? I am a _Curule Aedile_. I oversee these games.” The fermentation on his breath was almost nauseating. “I do business with your father’s peers. I am set to do business with your _brothers_.”

Elissaios faltered, as though the marble upon which he stood had canted sideways. He did not know the truth of Durus’ words. A _Curule Aedile_ was often beloved by the people for how they oversaw not only the games inside the amphitheater but those within the Circus Maximus. He could potentially oversee other forms of entertainment in the city, including the upcoming festivals.

It was not a political position every man had to hold in order to become someone of power. Plenty of _Consuls_ had never been named _Aedile._ Rather, it was a job for good men who cared about the vibrancy of their city… or very vain ones who relished the appreciation and attention.

He was unsure which type of man stood before him.

The wisest thing he could’ve done was to apologize and yet his tongue remained rooted to the roof his mouth, as uncertain as his mind. He could have been a man with plenty of connections that could lead back to his father. He could be a man his brothers had been trying to work with for the three years he’d been gone.

And what if Elissaios’ outburst at a clearly drunken man had ruined them all?

Durus stayed where he was, peering down at him with a haughtiness that conflicted the younger man even more. “I imagine they’d be mortified at your behavior. Especially your father. Everyone knows how he favors you.” He scoffed. “I wonder: how does that make your brothers feel? Surely they worry for their inheritance.”

Elissaios almost snarled. “I would never take anything from them.”

But the older man continued on as if he hadn’t heard: “It’s a worrying thing: to be true Roman-born sons and then have the _third_ son, some half-breed born to an Amazonian steal their father’s affections.” He tilted his head. “How _does_ that make your brothers feel?”

“We certainly don’t blame our father,” a mirth-infused voice supplied from behind the _aedile_ , “he stole our affections, too!”

Elissaios felt the physicality of his vision righting itself. He felt the indignation roll off him to make way for the overwhelming flush of relief that overtook his senses. He felt the validation burn something like pride in his chest.

And it all solidified once Durus turned, face suddenly pale, to reveal his older brothers standing just behind him.

Procus, the elder, had a tightness to his forehead and a solid line for a mouth. He resembled their father the most, with dark hair and light eyes and a rigid handsomeness to his face. He was the calmest of the three sons and his rage often manifested as disappointment. He looked very disappointed now.

Felix, the middle child, was a product of his birth order. He took after his mother with hair a touch lighter than his father’s and dark eyes that were wide and striking. He was intelligent, but more chaotic in his manner than his elder sibling. He was also much more liberal with sharing his off-putting, lopsided smile.

He was displaying it for Durus now, almost predatorially as if his answer had been a spear tip rather than pointed, dismissive words.

The older man floundered for a moment. “Procus.” He nodded his head, and then again. “Felix.”

Felix slipped by him, taking his place in what was meant to be his seat. One of his arms draped over his little brother’s shoulders.

Procus followed, purposefully staring down _his_ nose into Durus’ face. He stopped in front of the seat that was meant to be Elissaios’, the one right beside the _Aedile_. “Our brother has just returned from his service to our empire,” he said evenly, “and it seems that he’s being ridiculed rather than praised.”

Durus’ posture became rigid, his eyes suddenly affixed on the sands where the main event of the gladiatorial fights had begun. “…I was offering my services, to help with his advancement so that he could obtain the rank of _Quaestor_ —”

“You reek of wine,” Felix interjected.

“I—”

“Our father has already handled such arrangements,” Procus said, all dignity and restraint. “Thank you for your offer.” He lolled his head to look at his siblings. “Felix.”

His brother raised his brows at him from where he was leaning forward to enjoy the _Aedile_ ’s tormented expressions.

Procus raised a brow of his own and then sighed through his nostrils when his meaning wasn’t understood. “Regarding the _aedile_ ’s appointment tomorrow.”

Felix’s grin grew, eyes lighting in recognition. “Oh, of course! I’m afraid we’ll have to cancel tomorrow, Durus. Too many clients to meet on my father’s behalf, and you know Procus is busy with his own _Quaestor_ -ly duties.”

Durus looked as though he wanted to protest and even Elissaios started, worried they were taking liberties with their father’s interests just to support him.

But Felix just held up a hand, tilting his head in a mockery of the way he’d seen the older man do it. “Aren’t you supposed to be overseeing the _phallus_ for _Liberalia_? That suits you, doesn’t it?”

Elissaios bit his lip but did not turn his face away. He didn’t want to miss the influx of anger and shame on the shaken man’s face. He certainly didn’t want to miss the way he jerked his head down as a farewell, muttered an excuse, and vacated his seat with his clients in tow.

Felix did not try to contain his cackle.

“Wait, _that’s_ his duty?” the youngest brother asked. “He said he oversaw the games!”

“Nobody would trust him to oversee the games,” Procus replied, watching the _Aedile_ ’s retreating figure until it was lost among the crowd. “He’s been placed on the more obscure tasks of the lesser festivals since his placement.”

Elissaios had half a mind to follow and regain some of his dignity but found it didn’t matter once Felix crushed him to his chest.

“Little brother,” he crowed, dropping a kiss to his hair. When he pulled back he rested his hands on his shoulders and gave him his softest smile yet. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” the smaller man answered readily, leaning in to hug him again.

When they were finished, he turned to allow his elder brother to envelop him as well. Procus held him tightly, one hand cradling the back of his head until they parted. He took a step back to observe him with pride in his eyes.

“You look strong.”

Elissaios couldn’t help but preen a bit at that. “I guess fighting barbarians does that.”

Their brother cackled again and draped his long arms about both of them. He knocked his forehead against his half-brother’s curls. “You looked as though you wanted to cleave his head from his shoulders.”

Procus sighed. “Watch your words.”

“Why? He didn’t watch his!”

“He was drunk.”

“Now you’re defending him after you tell me to cancel the meeting!”

“Cancelling the meeting was appropriate for his words against our family.”

Elissaios hesitated to tell them the truth of the situation. After a moment he opted to wait, for Procus was right—they didn’t need anyone overhearing them. For now, he thought it best to enjoy the little victory, especially with Felix so giddy over his word play. He leant into the man’s embrace until they withdrew to sit.

For long moments they spoke of what they could—Procus’ growing family and clientele, Felix’s work for their father, how their parents had fared in the last three years, and so forth. They talked of his time in Germania. Of their uncle. They laughed and joked and enjoyed the fights below until the afternoon had almost completely slipped by.

The last of the fights were always the most anticipated. They were also the most profitable and it seemed as though a hush fell over the crowd as the horns blew for the main attraction.

Procus leant into his space. “Did father tell you who was fighting today?”

Elissaios shook his head. He most likely wouldn’t recognize the names anyway for how long he’d been away. He answered with what he’d been told: “He said he had a surprise for me.”

Felix laughed that airy laugh of his. “That’s certainly what I’d call it.”

He looked between his brothers, but their eyes were aimed at the announcer. He was a rotund man, large enough that most people inside the amphitheater could see him. He had a voice to match, booming and reverberating over the quiet crowd.

“People of Roma! The fight you have been waiting for is upon us!” There was a resounding cheer that he waited out. Gradually, he put up his hands again. “ _Imperator_ Hadrianus and Marcus Manlia Lentinus are proud to present to you two great gladiators of Roma!” He motioned widely to the sands where one of the gates opened slowly to allow a man walk out. “Our _Hoplomachus_ , the cruel Atrox!”

It felt as though the seat beneath him shook with the cry of the people. Elissaios craned his neck about to observe their excitement and energy. The gladiator was fair haired and stern faced, something most of the crowd would be unable to see from their distant seats. It wouldn’t matter in a few moments when he hid it away beneath his helmet, just as his body was hidden away with his thick armor and padding.

His gladiatorial type was a facsimile of the ancient Graecoi warriors of old, the _hoplites_. They’d worn heavy armor and had defended each other with large, round shields in times of war. The gladiator’s armor wasn’t exactly the same since much of his chest was bare. He wore a _subligaculum_ , a bronze guard up his right arm, and heavy padding on his legs covered by high-reaching greaves.

He raised his arms and weapons in the air to entice the crowd to engage in their cheering again. Then he turned towards the box saved for the Vestal Virgins and bowed his head. Then he stood, rigid and waiting.

His opponent got an equally dramatic entrance, though not from one of the large gates, but rather from beneath the arena. He’d been hidden away in the _hypogeum_ and now he arose as if he’d been born from the sands.

Although he hadn’t yet been introduced the voices in the amphitheater clamored together so loudly that Elissaios worried the whole of the city would be deafened.

He was dressed in the style of the _Murmillo_ fighter, inspired in its appearance and weaponry by the soldiers of the empire. Like his enemy, his equipment was also heavy. It was a style for the strongest of men, which this man exemplified by the obvious muscles bulging across his shoulders and arms. Just like the soldiers Elissaios had fought with, he carried a large, rectangular shield for protection. His weapon was the _gladius_ , a sword with which every Roman was well accustomed.

Unlike the other man, his greaves were meant only to protect his shins and not his thick thighs. They were left as bare as his chest, save for the strap that went about him to hold his _manica_ in place. Beneath that leather his tan skin was covered in dark, curling hair that narrowed at his stomach and disappeared down into his loincloth.

His large, ornamental helmet with its red plumage and ventilated face guard was tucked under one of his meaty arms. The other he lifted in the air to the joy of the audience.

He was handsome and confident if the smirk across his lips meant anything. When he flexed his pectorals, it seemed the women seated at the top of the amphitheater screamed loudest of all.

They did not grow as quiet as they had been when the announcer raised his hands, but still his voice reached the brothers through it all.

“And finally, fighting today in the style of the _Murmillo_ , we give you the ferocious Centurion Nicator!”

Elissaios jumped to his feet, eyes round, breath caught, and heart in his throat as the man he’d argued about with his uncle, the man he’d praised to his father and brothers, the man he’d idolized as a _hero_ prompted the calls of the crowd. As a man who had once nobly fought for Roma now stood on the sands of her arena, an _infamia_ forced to fight for her people’s entertainment rather than their glory.


	2. II - Nicator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He did not believe in ends. Well, save one. He did not believe in ‘ends’ the way the masses did. It had always seemed a thing for playwrights and dreamers. He thought them fools for that because reality had always been swift to teach him that when one thing ended another began.
> 
> Nicator had seen that many times.
> 
> The most recent, the most notable to Roma, had been his rebirth as a gladiator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Infamia – A low social rank of entertainers and performers
> 
> Summa Rudis – The referee of a gladiatorial match. He’s named after the Rudis, a wooden stick meant to smack the fighters into obedience.
> 
> Insula – A tiny Roman apartment, usually one room
> 
> Ariadne¬ – In Greek mythology Ariadne was the one to give the golden thread to Theseus so he could escape the Labyrinth
> 
> Arachne and Minerva – There is a story that Arachne was the greatest weaver in all the world. She challenged Minerva (Athena) and won. She boasted of this and for her hubris was turned into a spider so that she would weave forever.
> 
> Thermopolium – Roman fast food joints
> 
> Legatus – Essentially a general
> 
> Centurion – An officer in the Roman military; he is in charge of a unit of soldiers, usually 80 men or so.
> 
> Vigiles – Volunteer firefighters
> 
> Medicus – A doctor
> 
> Milites Medici – Military doctors
> 
> Praemium – The pay a soldier receives after he’s retired from the military
> 
> Aerarium militare – Kind of like a veteran’s office; this is where a soldier’s retirement funds are kept
> 
> Dowry – A payment made by the wife’s family to her new husband at the time of marriage. If there is a divorce this payment is to be returned.
> 
> Lictor – Bodyguards who carry big bundles of sticks; they serve men who have some sort of power within the cogs of Roman politics.
> 
> Hypogeum – The underground cells, halls, and what not beneath the Colosseum’s arena floor. There are elevators and trap doors for gladiators and animals to make dramatic entrances.
> 
> Ludus Magnus – The largest training school for the gladiators in the time of the empire. It is located very close to the Flavian Amphitheater. It had rooms, doctors, baths, and its own small arena to fight in. People could come watch the training during the day, though only a few since only 3,000 could fit in their seating as compared to the 50,000 spectators the Colosseum could accommodate.
> 
> Familia Gladiatorium – A ‘family’ of gladiators. A group of gladiators that belong to a single owner.
> 
> Auctoratio – The signing of an agreement between a gladiator and his owner (lanista); it essentially put a man into another’s service and made sure he would perform and die well in the arena if necessary. It also stipulated that the gladiators were property of their owner and could be treated as such, meaning they could be beaten for bad behavior.
> 
> Doctore – A specialized trainer in the Ludus Magnus who teaches a certain style of fighting.
> 
> Collegia – In this case, a guild of sorts that trains the gladiatrix to keep them separate from the men.
> 
> Subligaculum ¬– Roman underwear; this is normally what the gladiators fought in with their little pieces of armor on top.
> 
> Barbarus – Latin word for barbarian; the Romans considered anyone not Roman or Greek barbarians because they did not cultivate the olive or the grape, which were gifts from the gods.
> 
> Missio – Fights that give mercy to the losing gladiator (the most common during the Empire)
> 
> Sine Missione – Fights without mercy to the losing gladiator
> 
> Lanista – The owner of a gladiator family; he oversees their training, diet, and helps plan their fights.
> 
> Priapus - An early god of the fields who was linked to fertility. Famously, he was known for his humorously oversized erection.

He did not believe in ends. Well, save one. He did not believe in ‘ends’ the way the masses did. It had always seemed a thing for playwrights and dreamers. He thought them fools for that because reality had always been swift to teach him that when one thing ended another began.

Nicator had seen that many times.

The most recent, the most notable to Roma, had been his rebirth as a gladiator.

He’d taken to becoming _infamia_ much better than other Romans who had given up their freedom and status. Where those men had breakdowns, Nicator trained all the harder. Where they questioned their choices, Nicator only questioned his opponents. And because of that, in six months’ time, he flourished.

That is why the battle with Atrox gave him no trouble. By this point, he was the celebration of many of Roma’s citizens. He was also the bane of many more, for how much money they’d lost betting against him. Of course, he could not allow this fight to be any different.

Atrox was a brute, but not so different in size as Nicator himself. What was different was that he was young and rash, two things that could be manipulated into making their duel a short one. That meant it would be all the more lucrative for the time spent.

The plan worked almost immediately, as he knew it would due to all the time he’d spent watching the boy train. He started by insulting a sister he wasn’t sure the boy had. It was a lucky guess that struck home because his opponent reached too far and wildly with his curved sword. It was barely an effort to tap it aside and throw the big body behind it off balance. As he stumbled by Nicator lowered the wall of his shield to slap the flat of his blade on the exposed skin of the boy’s back.

Atrox snarled so loudly that a sound of delight issued from the box occupied by the Vestal Virgins.

He spun and made to lunge back but the _Summa Rudis_ was quick to slap the stick after which he was named to his circular shield to stop him. His opponent had taken the blow as condescending, as belittling instead of the playful threat it was.

No matter how he took it, he took it all the same. The point was awarded to Nicator along with a warning.

He bowed his head in false apology to the referee, smirking openly under his helmet. The man supervising them was an older one, and obviously had come to know what to expect from Nicator during his rise to fame. Or infamy. Often times they were so hard to distinguish between. Though, he supposed that was because the _plebs_ said one thing and the nobles another.

The two gladiators settled back into their starting positions, shields up. Atrox’s blade was up as well, though Nicator didn’t intend to expose his right side so soon. Nor did he need to: the other man was off balance both physically and mentally. His attacks were driven by power and urgency, which meant that there was no remembrance of his training. That meant he was going on instinct and without precision or strategy.

Each time they clashed Nicator came away with the point. Each time the crowd’s din would grow in anticipation of his cheeky taps on Atrox’s exposed back, side, or thigh. That frustrated the boy all the more.

When he accused the _murmillo_ of being unable to land a cutting blow, Nicator gave him what he wanted. It was not deep but aimed purposefully at the back of one heavy thigh so that the fool would remember each time he sat how wrong he was in his attempts to taunt his better. So that all the other fighters of his _familia_ would see his pain and know.

This infuriated Atrox and that was his downfall. Nicator humored him by parrying a few blows and then on an overextension rammed the full weight of his _scutum_ into the face of his helm. He could practically hear the skull rattle about within. With his enemy disoriented he easily hooked his ankle around the back of the uninjured knee and yanked. On the backwards motion he was able to retain his balance, but his foe was not.

Atrox went down heavily enough that the sand billowed out comically around him. Nicator slapped the blade out of his hand before the younger man could recall what to use it for and tested the fit of his sword tip at his collarbone.

They could not see one another’s expression through the metal mesh of their faceplates, but they could hear the hissing and screaming of the crowd. This was not a fight meant to end in bloodshed, but without their benevolent _imperator_ to oversee it the decision of what was to be done with the loser was up to the _editor_. In this case it was some priest or magistrate, or perhaps he was both. The problem with an _editor_ was he desired the glorified praise of the spectators.

And as much as they loved their favorite fighters surviving to entertain them again, it would be a lie to pretend they didn’t relish watching a man’s life spill out to stain the sand.

“Don’t be a fool,” Nicator advised as the _Summa Rudis_ stepped to them.

For all his internal mockery, Atrox proved that he wasn’t as much of one as the former soldier had thought. He lifted his arm and held his forefinger curved aloft for their referee to see.

Even though the battle had ended in submission, when Nicator bashed his sword to the outer shell of his shield in triumph the audience cheered his name. It was loud enough to reverberate inside his helmet.

Loud enough that all of Roma heard it.

Nicator had had many beginnings. The firsts had not mattered to anyone but himself and those who loved him. The ones after were meant to matter to those beyond his family. To his country. He doubted they ever really had.

The first beginning was obvious: he’d been born a plebeian, and barely that.

His father had been given a family name, and thus his wife and son had been blessed with it. It had never been one of import, and now it never would be. There had been moments, small points in time where it had the potential and yet perhaps the Fates had decreed it never to be so.

That is what both his parents had claimed. Yet, still, they had worked towards bettering it and each other. Of course they had held the same hope for their child.

Their son had been born Nonus Umbricia. He’d been given different _cognomia_ by different people, but none had ever caught hold. His _praenomen_ was rare enough that there were not many children or men with whom he could have been confused. And even that had been a profession of his parent’s effort. _Nonus_ was his name and not because he was the ninth child. No, he had been their ninth attempt.

There had been four others before him and yet none that had made it out of infancy. The other four, he had been told by his father, had been claimed by the gods long before his mother’s belly had the chance to grow. He had wanted to ask more, but the pain they’d tried to hide when speaking of his lost siblings taught him early to hold his tongue.

As he grew, he had realized that only his personal name had ever been used because they had feared he would never reach adolescence.

Still, they had loved him as if they never had a doubt. They had cherished him and worked hard that they might keep his belly from complaining most days. And though there had been some where only a loaf of bread sustained them, he remembered being excited that his mother would always sneak him the largest piece.

Once he was older, he’d taken to helping her earn extra for their home, if one could call a cramped, one-room _insula_ where they ate and slept home. It had been one of many in their building, built of brick to ward against the constant fires of earlier generations. His mother had worked for the shop on the street level as a seamstress. His duties had been to retrieve the bulk supplies of thread and help carry her creations to the storefront.

And though the thread they had received was not the gold of Ariadne, the rugs and garments and tapestries she spun might as well have been for how true her skill. She would tease him not to praise her else they earn the wrath of Minerva, as Arachne did. Sometimes Nicator had wished the goddess would notice them anyway and bestow upon them the fortitude to continue their struggle. For sometimes, even as a child, he had wanted to give in.

He hadn’t because his parents never had. Not even his father who had worked his hands to match the hard stone they’d shaped. There had been many long nights where his mother had nursed them, soothed them with oil and balm all whilst ignoring her own calluses. Nicator still remembered the way her husband would kiss her forehead in loving gratitude.

It was the same way he’d kissed his son’s forehead whenever he had delivered him his midday meal – whether it had been a loaf of bread or what they could afford from a _thermopolium_ he had always smiled bright enough to rival Sol when he’d seen his son running towards him.

As he’d grown they could afford less and less. Yet somehow his parent’s smiles had remained constant for him.

He’d known they hadn’t wanted him to fear. For that he’d been grateful. He’d felt loved. But still, though they wouldn’t have wanted him to, he’d felt incensed.

When he had been old enough, he’d found a better job as well. He hadn’t wanted to become a builder like his father, and the loom had always been a woman’s domain, so he’d had to set out and discover his own overt gifts and skills.

He’d started by becoming a deliverer. Of letters, parcels, or simply words; he’d deliver anything for a fee, especially for the wealthy senders with even wealthier recipients. Sometimes they had been kind enough to tip. Not that that had fooled him. The more he’d run across the city carrying items the more he’d seen of the elite.

The more he’d seen of them, the more he’d come to resent them.

There had been a part of him that understood their necessity. There still was. They had been the ones to oust Tarquinius Superbus, the final king of Roma. But they had taken advantage of the divide. It had been their families to take over and create something new to govern the people.

And they had created something to keep their power. To keep the divide, though perhaps less overt. They’d pitted _Patricians_ and _Plebeians_ against one another in a bid to keep their wealth and influence. Their ploy hadn’t worked for long—the _Plebs_ had demanded a way to govern themselves. It had been a laughable idea to the upper class until their poor counterparts had gone on strike, exiting the city and bringing every last enterprise to a standstill.

So, the _Patricians_ had capitulated. Even near five hundred years later the _Concilium Plebis_ was still an important part of their multifaceted government. That the masses had a right to have their voices heard was important. In fact, it had been the start of the _plebs_ gaining a foothold in both society and the Roman economy.

So much so that once the _imperators_ took over, they had instantly recognized the waning power of the _Patricians_. And again—why not? Augustus had been born an _eques_.

The elite of his day were not the elite of the past. Yet still, these newly endorsed _eques,_ rich _plebeians_ , and _Imperator-_ approved senatorial families acted as though they were. They sought to keep their power and their seats by courting favor with the leader of the empire. And each other.

Oh, how they fawned over each other.

And stepped over everyone beneath them—no matter that they, or their ancestors, had started out much the same.

Nicator had been born in the age of enterprise and freedmen. The latter were the ones who had taught him how fortuitous the former could be. They were the most skillful people inside Roma, not to mention the smartest. Perhaps they had not been educated in the lofty pursuits of the elites, but they could read and write and run businesses.

And they knew how to scam those businesses. How to pinch extra coins from a client. How to cut a coin purse without being seen or felt. How to make the dice in the hidden, underground places roll in their favor against esteemed men.

They had been the ones to find him scouring the streets, trying to stick his dirty, small hands into coin purses. They had watched him get bloodied lips and darkened eyes for it. They had apparently watched it enough to eventually intervene.

They had been the ones to show him how to be light on his feet and even lighter with his fingers. They had showed him the windows and cracks by which to stand to overhear the best gossip and information. When the words had been foreign to him, they had taught him to understand. And though his mother had been the one to teach him to read and write, the freedmen had helped him cultivate it. Had helped him copy the style of another man’s letters for their own purposes.

These freedmen, and some not so free, had become his friends. They’d educated him, watched out for him, and in turn he’d done what he could for their businesses. He’d given them what secrets they’d needed. He’d scribbled what words they’d needed. And what coins they hadn’t needed he’d been allowed to take back to his family.

His father had thought him a courier, and all the better for it.

His mother had known better, but all the same she had only ever kissed his forehead and wished him safety during the days. He was glad she had never asked. He hadn’t wanted to let her know those kisses fueled him into stealing all he could to ensure their family would be happy and healthy and together.

When the day came where his feet had grown too large to step quietly and his hands too thick to slip free tightly packed coins, he’d been trained in something else. That had been when the betting had begun, when he’d come to know the games of adults better than any he’d known as a child. That was when they’d taught him to take the punches and repurpose the fury they instilled within him.

And when his shoulders had widened and his thighs thickened, when his fists hardened and his wits sharpened, that had opened up a new avenue for earning coin. No longer did he have to rely on dice nor the games. He could rely on himself and his own strength in the secret parts of the city, where men went to watch others punch and scrape and claw for survival—economic or otherwise.

For a time Nicator had been content. He was good at outwitting other men, with his mind or otherwise.

It had only been when his mother took notice of the cuts and calluses on his knuckles that he ever questioned it.

“What does that do for Roma?” she’d wondered.

He’d wondered in turn what Roma had ever done for her or her husband, besides make them wonder if they would be able to feed their child every day.

But her happiness is what had mattered most to him—more than that of his friends or his lovers.

He just hadn’t been sure how to procure it, to prolong it. He’d been unsure how his skills could benefit their city and empire. Had he been born in the senatorial order, perhaps his wits would have brought their family name renown. But as he’d been—the lowly son of a seamstress and builder—he’d stood no chance of uplifting the Umbricia name.

And that was what was good for Roma, wasn’t it? Strong families?

One of the reasons they’d been so hungry had been the laws set down under Augustus’ principate. Families were to have three children or more, to strengthen the city with more pure-blooded Romans. Never mind the toll parents of lost children already suffered. His mother had held herself at fault, though he and his father _never_ thought the same.

And though it was not their intention, Nicator had felt the burden pass onto his shoulders the older he became. Once he’d turned eighteen, he’d been expected to make a choice with his life: a career and a family and years of servitude the kind under which his parents labored or a more liberating, but dangerous sort.

The sort that would take twenty-five years of his life, that would take him far from Roma and his parents and friends, and yet still tether him tighter to the city than he’d ever felt living within it. But in return for those long years he’d been promised pay, spoils of war, and fighting. And he’d always been willing to do the latter for the former.

Those in their empire without land or wealth could enlist, and often did in an effort to advance socially and economically. That had been his entire purpose in selling himself to the legions. It had not been because he’d yearned for recognition for his name. It had not been to add to the glory of their civilization. It had not even been because he was good in a fight.

It had been for the money.

And so, the military had been another beginning.

Before he’d left his father had boasted of his enlistment proudly to the men chiseling beside him. His mother had done the same with her friends. Even so, through their pride it had been easy for him to recognize their fear.

Their son had not been afraid, however. He’d known how to fight, how to read, and he’d come to know _people_.

And those were the qualities necessary in becoming a Centurion.

Of course, that was the intended end goal for any _pleb_ that joined. But in reality those offices had been for the heroes of Roma. For the individuals of valor and selflessness. For leaders. Nicator had been none of those things. He’d joined for the pay and every surplus coin he earned he’d sent home that his parents might never know hunger again.

Thus, it had only ever been coincidentally that he fought for Roma.

That had not saved him from being noticed. As all recruits had, he’d trained with the _gladius_ and the _pila_. He’d learned of strategy and organization. But unlike the others he’d fought harder, he had learned faster, and he had become _better_. And that had made him valuable.

Valuable enough to ship him off across their stretched empire into _Imperator_ Traianus’ own legion: _Legio II Traiana Fortis_. For four years he was stationed with them in the eastern section of the empire, proving his mettle. He’d come to know his peers, his commanders, and the foreign beliefs and languages and behaviors of the land.

And then the wars had come. Truly, he’d known it was inevitable with an _Imperator_ like Traianus leading them. He’d been a man who had believed expansion was strength, in terms of their borders and thus of civilization. He’d been a general, and he’d reigned as he’d lived his life. The army had loved him for it and so long as the men had been content, the rest of their world had been as well.

And winning wars had made them very happy because it had made them very rich.

And the east? Anatolia, Mesopotamia, Aegyptus—they were all very rich. And beyond those areas were the lands teeming with one of Roma’s enduring enemies: the Parthians. Relations with them had always been strenuous, with some _Imperators_ attacking and others placating. Traianus had been part of the former, though the true reason behind his campaigns would probably be argued for all time. Some thought the Parthians had been growing too strong, that they threatened Roma’s borders and provinces. Others said it had been a way to strengthen what they already had and push even farther. Nicator assumed it had something to do with trade routes to the lands beyond, from where they obtained beautiful silks and spices.

In the end it hadn’t been his place to question it. It had only been his place to fight. And for two years, his legion and all the others pulled into the area did just that. Traianus himself had led the campaign, judging and strategizing from afar as his men died for his ambitions. For a good part of it their forces had been winning, though they hadn’t been without their casualties.

His unit in particular had ended up being in the crux of several battles. There’d many times where their Centurion, voice lost in the din, could not be heeded. Those had been the times where they could only rely upon their training and each other. Those had been the times he’d felt his blood boil, his mind whir, and his sword arm turn to stone in preparation for the arduous battling ahead.

Often, he’d heard himself shouting orders, calling after others, and screaming in the face of their enemies even as he was pelted with their blood. Never once had he suffered any serious injury. For that matter, neither had his unit for the most part. Naturally, they’d lost a few, but they’d found themselves more successful than others.

And Nonus Umbricia had found himself with his new title. A _cognomia_ that had stuck to him as thickly as the stench of warfare. _Nicator_ , the other soldiers had murmured to each other. _Nicator_ , they’d begun to say out loud the more battles they won. _Nicator_ , they chanted when he’d pushed them to victory after the fall of their Centurion.

Nicator: _The Conqueror_.

Unfortunately, Victoria seemed to have left them towards the end. Before they could capitulate on Parthian retreats or strengthen the hold on the cities they had captured, insurrection had arisen elsewhere in the empire. With the military stretched thin, the more restless parts of their territory had decided to try their hand at revolting.

It was a shame for them that Romans were at their most ruthless when putting down those they viewed as traitors.

By the time all the rebellions had been managed, Traianus had pulled away into Syria and remained there until sickness befell him. Though their boundaries had been pushed as he’d wanted, their _Imperator_ never finished the war. He’d died en route to Roma.

Nicator had only ever seen him once and so had felt nothing when they’d received the news. The man had gotten him and his peers some extra coin, but not much else. It seemed to shake the morale of the legions for a small time until his successor, Hadrianus stepped forward.

There had been a lot of talk in the days that followed, though he could remember none of it. A new beginning had found him in the shape of a scroll addressed to him, littered in his mother’s handwriting. While he’d sent out letters, often accompanied with money, her replies had always been sparse. He hadn’t begrudged her that—he’d meant the money he’d sent to be spent on their food and living, not scraps of papers put into a courier’s hand that may or may not make it to him.

The moment it had been placed into his hands he could tell there was a weight to it, and somehow… somehow, he hadn’t needed to open it to know the words written upon the parchment. When he’d worked up the courage, he’d spent a long time reading them, analyzing the mournful strokes of ink, rereading the sorrow of a widow and her attempt at comfort for a son worlds away. To a son who hadn’t seen his father in over six years.

Who would never see him again.

He’d mourned for days, drowning himself in wine and gambling amongst the men. They’d gone easy on him and had never made him pay for many of them knew the pain in his heart. He’d been grateful to them for it, for more than they’d realized.

For there had been more in his heart than pain. There’d been fear.

But fear in losing his mother could not free him from his commitment to the legion. _Legio II Traianus Fortis_ , among others, had remained behind to stabilize the eastern regions because although the political rebellions had been quelled, the religious ones raged on.

Those had been the ones that had lasted, the ones that always seemed to last, that would, at least to Nicator, continue on forever in some form. For the legions in the east the issue was the Jewish population and their dissent.

He’d never blamed them for it, not after the despoiling of their sacred land and temple, but that didn’t mean he understood it. Romans wanted two things: tax money and obedience. It seemed the smart thing to pass over the money and play the part rather than face blades and spears. To feign submission and believe whatever they wanted any other time.

But they could not, and his legion, as well as several others, had been dispatched to Iudaea to suppress riots and revolts. He supposed that was another beginning of sorts because for near eight years he served there, keeping the people in order, hoping they would not force his hand. He’d been very quick to realize, however, that only Roma was doing that.

For the most part the dissention had settled after its leaders were thwarted. Roman occupation had continued and Nicator’s legion remained for stability. It had not always been for nothing, but for the most part he felt as though his time in the east had the opposite effect on him than it should have. He’d come to understand the cultures living together—Roman, Jewish, Graecian, and more. He had come to appreciate them. He had befriended people who were at one time his supposed enemies.

He had enjoyed his station there and lamented each time he had to stain his sword.

By the third year there, his unit had need of a new Centurion, which would make their fourth in five years. The first they had lost against Parthia. The second against a night raid. The third they had not lost—or rather, they’d lost him just about every night to wine and prostitutes. As a Roman man that had been his right.

What hadn’t been his right as a leader was being a fool.

He hadn’t been the unit’s first choice in Centurion, either. Nicator had made friends of every man who fought beside and behind him. And why wouldn’t he? They were the men who would keep him alive. The men who slept and ate beside him. The men who laughed and complained and struggled with him. The men who were honest with him and he with them.

And they had wanted him to step up and claim the title. He could read and write, after all, and those, as well as being an exemplary soldier, were the requirements of the office.

But Nicator had never wanted to lead, besides that he’d been considered by the officers of the highest ranks too young and inexperienced, never mind that he had been fighting for nine years. And so, although the pay raise would’ve benefitted him, he’d let the opportunity pass so that he might retreat to the barracks like all the other men and not waste away into the night fretting over strategy and planning.

He’d been all the better without the responsibility, too. He’d been glad to spend his time drinking and gambling and getting paid for it. It had seemed a decision well-made when they received new recruits, one of whom caught his eye. He’d been of Iberian-Romano birth and during the year in which he was ingratiated into their unit he and Nicator had grown close. He’d been young and handsome with dark hair and darker eyes. He’d been wiry and brave and boisterous.

They had called him Floridus for the way his skills had seemed to blossom under their training.

He’d been fine in hiding his attraction to him, even when they’d taken up sleeping quarters together. Although he hadn’t been from Italia, he’d been a Roman citizen and touching a citizen in the manner he wanted could ruin them both. Besides, it hadn’t been as if he had to deny his affinity towards men; he could’ve easily gone and found a foreigner or a prostitute if he’d so wanted. He simply couldn’t turn it towards his fellow soldier.

Floridus hadn’t had the same compunction, or at least after a night of wine he hadn’t. While they’d been too drunk to do anything about their obvious attraction, they hadn’t been so drunk as to forget their kisses and touches the next day. After that it had just come to hiding the way they fell into each other. Somehow it had been easier than Nicator had expected.

But it had helped that they’d shared their room. They were lovers for a few months or so, though it had been mainly a term of convenience. While they’d been fond of each other, there had been no delusions of love between them. Nicator had appreciated that more than he would have any real emotions.

Still, he’d looked out for the younger man. He’d made sure he hadn’t gotten scammed by any of the older soldiers and their betting or harassed for his handsome face. More than anything he’d made sure to place him on the safe patrols when their Centurion would pass out assignments.

Or he’d tried.

Some of the local populace, whether they’d felt a kinship with the Romans or whether they’d just wanted some money, acted as spies of a sort for the varying legions. Jewish, Graecian, or what have you, there were all sorts of men who were willing to trade information for coin. Nicator had felt an affinity for them for that.

One day, hours before the night rounds a Graecian man had come into their fort with parchment rolled into his fist. He’d claimed he’d overheard insurgents planning and had written down everything. He’d given it to their Centurion and had left with a hefty coin purse.

And so, it had been up to their leader to read and decipher the information in order to plan accordingly. Nicator had been there to see the man’s urgency in the note’s deliverance. It had rankled something within him when their officer had read it with an impassive face only to tuck it into a pocket without nary a word about changing the guard or adding to its numbers.

He’d asked after it, despite the frown it had gotten him. The Centurion, curtly, had told him he would consider the information and do what was needed for their unit if necessary. But he must not have thought it so because by the time night fell, Floridus and his partner had been preparing for their walk.

“Keep your eyes open,” Nicator had warned him. “There was some messenger causing a fuss earlier.”

“It’s been quiet for weeks.” Floridus had laughed him off and shoved his shoulder. “But I will watch for the beggars and their knives. They’d be fools to attack me.”

He’d said it with all the confidence of a Roman legionnaire, as if he’d been assured by the gods themselves that he’d one day go on to help conquer all of the world for his country.

But he hadn’t. He and his partner had died that night in a back alley where they’d been ambushed. Nicator had been one of the men to find him, after the duo had failed to report back. He’d been the one to carry his body to their fort and lay him out for all the men to see.

And collectively their entire unit had known whom to blame.

It hadn’t occurred to Nicator until after he’d spent hours staring at his lover’s empty cot to remember the distinction he had made to Floridus. A _Graecian_ spy had delivered that parchment. Centurions came from normal, Plebeian stock but each and every last one of them had to be literate. But that literacy was expected in _Latin_.

Nicator had acted before thinking. He hadn’t asked for a meeting or announced himself. He’d marched to the Centurion’s _cubiculum_ and demanded to see the report without so much as a glance around the room. It would have done him good to have scouted his surroundings first. It would have saved him the embarrassment when he found that their legion’s _Legatus_ , a man called Antias, and all his subordinate officers had also been interested in the tale of what had transpired.

Felicitas had always been fond of Nicator, and he of her. It was an admiration not forgotten either, because the _Legatus_ had held up his hand to silence his offended men. When he’d lowered it there was curiosity and amusement on his wizened features.

“Your name, soldier?”

“Umbricia,” he’d answered because his family name had been the only one that mattered.

His superior had nodded as if he’d recognized his name. Perhaps he had. “You knew the boys who died.”

“I did, _Legatus_.”

“You grieve for them and wish to know what happened.”

Nicator had looked from him to his Centurion who had been almost as white as the parchment he’d been no doubt hiding. The soldier had clenched his fists, of which every man in the room made note.

“You know something?” their _Legatus_ had amended.

And because he had most likely already earned himself a lashing as well as latrine duty, Nicator had nodded. “He received intel about an attack hours before it happened.”

“If that were so why was it not prevented?”

“…It came from a Graecian.”

Antias had inclined his head. “And so, you believe he wrote it in his own language. You question your Centurion’s ability to read it.”

“I do,” Nicator had heard himself snarl.

At first his Centurion had denied getting the information. That quickly broke down under his commander’s sharp eye though he had tried to save himself with another lie. In this one he had claimed he no longer possessed the letter. It would have been the smart thing to do—burn the evidence. But he hadn’t been a smart man and so one of the officers had found it within his desk.

The _Legatus_ had laid it out and let his eyes rove over it. Then he’d placed his finger above a sentence. “Read this,” he’d prompted the Centurion.

The man had tried, in broken, poor Graecian. It had been so poor that almost every other word had been incorrect. It had made the soldier questioned if he could even read their own native language.

After this attempt the parchment had been passed to Nicator.

“Read.”

The legionnaire had taken the mangled note to stare at it for a moment, unsure. And then he’d remembered his dead lover’s face and spit out the words, heavily accented though they’d been. And though he hadn’t needed to, he’d translated for them: “The insurgents plan to ambush the late-night patrol. There is a garden wall near the warehouse to be used as cover so that they might drop down from above. After the attack they planned to steal several sacks of grain, that the Roman soldiers go hungry as they have.”

The report had claimed about ten sacks had been stolen. The price of two men had been ten sacks of grain.

“Why did you not ask this soldier for help translating?” one of the officers had asked.

The Centurion had puttered a moment, mind too slow to think of an answer. And Nicator could only think that they’d died for a man’s foolishness and pride.

There’d been protracted, tense moments of silence then. Moments where the officers had waited for their leader’s decision. Where Nicator had wished he could call forth Jupiter’s divine justice rather than leave it to a man.

But he was no priest, and the _Legatus_ had been no fool.

The general had been an opportunist and he’d pounced on the moment before him. Nicator could say nothing as he gave the orders for the Centurion to be stripped of his command and led from the room. He would be sent back to Roma, and yet not dishonorably. It had been that which invoked the soldier’s ire, that had made him turn on the man who could have him flogged through the streets and then crucified in the market.

“He does not deserve to retire,” he’d hissed. “This should stain his reputation until he is put into exile.”

The older man had perched himself on one corner of the desk and clasped his wrists over one of his thighs. He’d arched one graying eyebrow at the man’s anger but he had not rebuked it when it had passed. When he’d shrugged his leather had grunted with him.

“Does it stain your _century’s_ reputation?”

Nicator had blinked. “They followed orders—”

“And they died in an alley to some untrained men with makeshift weapons.”

He remembered his fists curling. “The note implied there were many conspirators. If he had sought help to read it, we could have prepared.”

Antias had hummed in agreement. “So, we agree the blame is solely on your Centurion.”

It had felt as though his skin had begun to vibrate, something so overbearing it felt as though he’d been becoming one with the rough spun of his tunic. “You don’t want this to get out because it would look bad on your legion back home,” he’d accused. “And here it would weaken morale.”

The _Legatus_ had raised one of his upturned palms in agreement. “Or here it looks badly on your company. Or did the men not pick him?”

“He had seniority and could read and write,” Nicator had been quick to defend.

“And yet here we are. The man is gone and we need his replacement.” It had taken him two strides to stand before his subordinate. Although he’d been shorter, somehow it had still felt as though Nicator had been looked down upon. “Though I did not know your face, your name is familiar. I had heard rumors of an Umbricia turning down the chance at leading his unit some time ago.”

“It was the right choice.”

“Was it? In light of these events?”

The legionnaire recalled gritting his teeth. “Making me doubt it won’t bring them back.”

“It will not,” his leader had assented, “but now we have a chance to save others in the future.”

“By putting a man who doesn’t want the responsibility in charge?”

Antias had laughed. “You realize I can appoint you without your say? Without your men’s? Why shouldn’t I? You read and write our language as well as Graecian. You fight well, else I would not know your name. Else you would not be hailed as Nicator by your peers.”

“You’d give this to a man who came to confront his superior officer over his failings?”

“You have an issue with following the orders of inept men,” he’d been told. “So, become the person who gives the orders and you’ll only answer to myself and my closest officers.”

“You mean the young prats who have no military experience but lord over us because their fathers are senators and politicians.”

At that his _Legatus_ had cackled. “You know I hail from the same stock.”

Nicator had tucked his chin down. “I do.” But in the age of the empire the men of his station had been different and worthy. They put their education to use to serve and lead their men. It was different of the boys who were sent to _become_ men and yet only served as glorified bookkeepers and couriers.

“Umbricia, you’re a clever man. I can see that. Perhaps not intelligent, but clever.” He’d circled to stand at his back. “I believe your bluntness would serve your men and my legion better than some sycophant.” Then he’d craned his head back and leveled his subordinate with muddy eyes. “And I think your men would agree. But if that is not enough for you, perhaps my last point will be. Are you aware that a Centurion’s pay is much higher than your own?”

“Of course.”

“Do you know how much?” At the shake of the younger man’s head, Antias had answered: “Sixteen times as much. Surely that interests you?” He hadn’t waited for a reply before stepping toward the door.

Nicator had done well in not letting his head swivel around to follow him and betray his sudden interest. Had the other man continued looking, though, he would have seen his gray eyes widen so much it had felt as though they took up all his face.

His general had traipsed out of the room before he could comment or argue, which had certainly been the best way to stop him from doing it. Beyond that what could he do but obey? He had pushed his luck far enough and any farther might truly get him lashed through the fort as an example. For that moment he’d been amusing, but if continued to push his luck he’d be not only an annoyance but a disrespectful one.

It had not taken him half the hour to amass the men nor to have them standing in formation though the two empty spaces had been noted by them all. The _Legatus_ had seemed pleased with this as he’d paced back and forth in front of them. He’d assessed their faces, but none more so than Nicator’s. It would never be clear if he’d found what he sought, but he’d stopped in front of them anyway and put his arms behind his back.

“Your company has suffered losses,” he’d told them. “We grieve with you. Know that their ashes are being sent to their families with full honors.” He’d surveyed their faces and turned to begin walking again, to the furthest line of their column. “However, I have called you forth to remedy another loss. Forgive me, it is one I put upon your unit. I have decided it is time for your unit to be appointed a new Centurion.”

There’d been a low murmur among them, undecipherable save that no voice sounded surprised.

“Your company has always been one to decide your leader for yourselves… save for the last time. That time one of my officers chose for you.” He’d paused and tilted his head at them. “I assume many of you are standing here thinking: never again.”

A chorus had chimed in the affirmative.

“I would not presume to choose for you. However, I would _suggest_ one of you as a candidate. This man came to us, ready to prostate himself under the whip if it meant bringing the truth of the wrongs done unto your unit to our notice.”

The soldier beside him, a man he’d fought with for years and considered his friend, had turned his head to look upon him. He’d had a feeling the men directly around him were doing the same. He had not exactly been subtle during his march to the officer’s quarters.

“Nonus Umbricia Nicator,” Antias had said. “Step forward.”

The named man had, chin high as he’d moved to stand beside their leader.

“This man came to confront your inept Centurion, though it may have meant his own death.” The general had held up his hands to quiet the rising discontent in front of him. “I do not punish honorable men. Nonus Umbricia Nicator is an able fighter. He can read and write in Latin and Graecian. He knows each of you, as you know him. You have named him _Conqueror_ for a reason. Tell me if there is another choice for you.”

He remembered there’d been a beat, and then his friend from where he’d stood in the front spoke: “There is none.”

Immediately, another had joined: “There is none, sir!” And another and another, until it seemed they’d all been in agreement. Until it had seemed as though their voices were stirring the very air beneath his feet until he no longer felt grounded.

“There is none,” the _Legatus_ had repeated and turned to him. “Would you deny your men, Nicator?”

And looking out over their faces he hadn’t known how he could. And thinking on the promise of coin he’d known he wouldn’t.

Being instated as Centurion had been another beginning.

His term had lasted for five years. It had come with all the extra work and aggravation he had anticipated and dreaded. His _Legatus_ had not lied, though. He truly had only ever answered to his superior officers, and though some of those men had been younger than he, he’d found them less foolish than he’d expected. In fact, the rich boys had been more than happy to join him and his men to drink until they couldn’t walk straight.

After that, with his voice heard, the legion had felt more cohesive than it ever had. His first act had been to chase down the insurgents who’d killed his friend and lover. He’d taken inspiration from his and their general’s discussion and had framed it as an attack on their legion’s reputation and on the Roman army’s reputation at large. With that in their minds, his unit, as well as a few others, had been more than happy to find and prosecute the perpetrators with the help of their small spy system.

His second act had been to expand that system. The more Graecians and Jews he had working for him the more secrets he learned. From the simple and mundane to the complex, he’d welcomed every bit of parchment into his own hand so that he would never have to carry the body of another comrade over his shoulders.

The men and officers had commended him for it, as they’d commended him for what they thought was humility. He’d always took his turn in the patrols, just as he had before. He’d always practiced with his men. He been as blunt and honest as always and had been appreciated for it.

But none of it had been humility. It had been practicality. It had been to stave off boredom. It had been because he was still a soldier and one that had functioned best when he could see and assess his surroundings and enemies. Staying within the fort and trusting others—though he had trusted his men—would equate to blindfolding and deafening him.

It would make him vulnerable, and that was not something Nicator ever wanted to be again.

And for those five years he hadn’t been. He had never lost a man, barring those who had fallen ill or retired. He’d never failed to carry out his orders and under his leadership his men had never failed to exceed expectations. Nicator had never understood why they worked so hard for him but he was glad for it because that had meant he’d never had to punish them.

Maybe they’d done it to prolong his career. More likely they’d done it to keep the man they’d considered a friend and ally in command rather than some fool looking to elevate his position in society.

Nicator had only wanted to elevate the weight of his coin purse and that was something they could very much understand and respect.

While he’d joined up under an _Imperator_ of war, Hadrianus’ focus on strengthening their existing borders had been a welcome policy during his five years as an officer. Unfortunately, it hadn’t guaranteed complete safety in Iudaea. One night, the last night he would effectively serve, he and some of his men had learned that the most brutal way a man could.

He’d seen the fire on a walk through the camp with their _Legatus_ , who had come to appreciate him in the moments he wanted to be a person rather than a general. They’d both sprung to action at the interruption; Nicator had moved quickly to gather his unit while his leader went to gather the other officers.

As such, Nicator and his men had been the first on the scene to help combat the fire. It had exploded in a warehouse, which was not such an odd sight. These buildings of storage were often large and filled with product, much of which was very flammable. A drunk guard and one errant torch had caused many a mistake during their time stationed in the country.

He and his soldiers had fallen in line with the civilians running back and forth from a well, carrying buckets to help quench the fire. He’d organized them like the _vigiles_ in Roma, one man lined up after another so that full buckets could be passed from one to the next and thus quicker to the flames.

And in his unit’s dutiful and honorable distraction, they’d been attacked.

The men had come screaming from the shadows, heightened by the rapid flicking of the blaze their enemy was fighting. That had been what allowed Nicator to turn in time. He’d never understood the need of foreigners to shout in such a manner, especially when they had been hoping to take the unit by surprise.

Their shields had been cast aside in their haste, but each man had his _gladius_ and knife. When their Centurion gave the command, they’d turned about with their weapons drawn, prepared for battle. Their attackers had swarmed them from all sides, though that had not mattered with the legionnaires out of their formation. The army fought in rank with their shields to protect one another on the field, but that did not mean they could not, and would not, defend themselves and their fellow soldiers freely and unrestrained.

Nicator had made sure of that.

“Fall together!” the Centurion had cried.

His men had hastened to obey and he had no fear or worry for them. Those he’d saved for the innocent civilians who had rushed to give aid for now their faces were contorted by confusion and fear. Most had bolted for the safety of their city, some had stood rooted to their spots as he’d seen in some first-time soldiers. Some minds could not comprehend danger, imminent or otherwise.

He’d watched one man get struck down because of it. Another, perhaps his son, had gone to his aid. Nicator had made sure to be there in time to save him from the same blade, so blinded had he been in aiding the older man. He’d stabbed into their attacker, dispatching him and sparing a quick glance over his shoulder to see blood. There hadn’t been enough to signify death and the wound hadn’t looked mortal.

Or it would not be, provided he could keep them safe. It would be a challenge with the way the rebels had poured in from the alleys and streets all around them. They had not outnumbered the Romans, but he’d gotten separated from them by enough distance that, though they hadn’t been warriors, they’d posed enough of a threat to him.

Had he been alone, he would not have worried, but he hadn’t been. He’d had two men hidden behind his legs and several others cut off from safety. The citizens would be directly in the way of the unavoidable skirmish.

If theirs had been any other unit, the innocents would have been disregarded or outright killed. But Nicator and his men had gotten there first.

One of his soldiers had yelled his name and he heard the jangle of armor as they made to his side. He’d held his hand back at them.

“Half of you, to me!” he’d barked. “The rest, get these citizens behind our line!”

Their line, unfortunately, had been backed up into the fire. He’d seen the dark humor in it, those men crammed between the soldiers they’d viewed as invaders and literal flames only to be born down upon by radicals whom they had never supported. All they’d wanted to do was help.

It hadn’t been so amusing when he’d realized all they’d ever wanted to do was live. To protect their livelihood. He could more than understand that.

Two of the men who had joined him had heaved the wounded citizen up by his arms, relying on the protection of their peers as they’d dragged him and his son to the bulk of their unit. Nicator and the other soldiers had moved back with them, deflecting and stabbing and killing as they went. By the time they’d stood as one with the dozen or so unarmed men cowering behind them, they’d become outnumbered and surrounded.

It had been by numbers only. Nicator’s men had been worth at least three of their attackers.

There’d been a moment of hesitancy where both parties had sized up the other. Many of those that had come from the shadows had been poorly armed. Those that had armor wore mismatched pieces of varying age. Plenty of his own men had discarded some of their attire when combatting the flames, and yet still he’d thought they had the advantage.

It would’ve been their death to think otherwise.

Nicator recalled gritting his teeth and tightening the grip on his sword and knife. “Protect the civilians and each other!” The men had answered in the affirmative. “These cowards want to see what happens when they back us against a wall! I think they’ve forgotten that Romans are wolves!”

His soldiers had crowed around him, very un-Romanlike, right up until their enemies had fallen upon them. After that everything around him had become a blur. Even with the colors of the world so violently distorted by the raging fire he’d found the only simple shade to discern had been red. The red of the blood on his blade. The Roman red on his friends and soldiers. The red of the furious faces charging him.

For long minutes he and his men had spilled much of it without expending theirs in turn. But when their attackers had grown impatient and uncaring they’d began to cluster together, any semblance of rank or training forgotten. They’d become a mob, a blob of browns and whites with protrusions of metal that they’d thrusted uncaringly forward. It had been difficult to see which hand had held what. They’d swung wildly and cared not for whom they’d pushed into harm’s way so long as they wounded Roman flesh.

And they had. Nicator had heard a few of his men cry out in pain. He’d been proud when the clang of their weapons had rung out louder in retaliation. Yet, still, they’d been surrounded. His order had been fresh in their minds—they were bound to protect those behind them and each other for as long as they could. For as long as it took for the other units, for their _Legatus_ , to relieve them.

It had been minutes, he knew, but even years later it recalled it feeling so much longer.

One of the men closest to him had taken a slash to his arm, enough to have made him reel in pain. Enough to have made the man that had separated him from Nicator turn to protect his open side. He’d done so successfully, but it had been as if a pattern had opened. Protecting his peer had left him vulnerable and while the Centurion had been able to deflect the blow, the man to _his_ left could not do the same for him.

Not when it had been four different blades, all eager to cut out the heart of a Roman officer.

He’d managed to redirect two of them, but the others sank home. One had sliced at his ribs, immediately flushing his side in wetness. The other had caught in the leather at his shoulder, keeping the weak thrust at bay, though not enough to stave off penetration. When Nicator had stabbed forward and thrust the man back, the blade had fallen free of him, washing his other side in the same liquid heat.

It had made fighting harder, especially at the loss of what was supposed to be his dominant arm. Fortunately for Nicator, both his arms were dominant. Unfortunately, it meant that when he’d sunk his knife into one of his attackers’ neck he had to leave it there so that his _gladius_ could be transferred to his still-mobile hand. After that it had been hard to protect the men at his sides as he they repeatedly did for him.

He may have still done it, though perhaps not in the most conventional manner.

Because by the time he’d heard the marching of the other units, by the time he’d heard the fearful cries of their enemies, by the time he’d heard them fleeing in retreat, by the time he’d no longer had a reason to fight and stab, he’d taken enough blows and slices and stabs to bring him to his knees.

The men beside him had taken his arms and he’d held onto them so that he could pivot around to gauge his men. Several had superficial wounds, but none had fallen. Better yet, every citizen hidden behind them had been breathing, though a few had been rather bloody.

With that confirmation he’d allowed his soldiers guide him onto his back so that he could clasp his hands to the worst of his wounds.

“You’ll be fine, sir,” one of his helpers had said most likely because he’d thought it was expected of him.

Nicator had not answered because that would only be true if infection failed to roost in his body. With the way the blood had been pulsing out of him, making him sink into the dirt at his back, he’d found it a hard hope to wish for.

He didn’t recall lapsing in consciousness, but he remembered being confused when new hands had taken him then, ushering his men away. “Tend to your unit and the civilians. My men and I will take your Centurion to the _medicus_.”

Antias had been peering down at him, a small smile stretching his lips.

“Well done, Centurion,” he’d congratulated. “Ease back, you will be fine.”

“I’m sitting in too much of my blood to be fine,” he’d answered, glad that he hadn’t let his anxiety warble his voice.

His _Legatus_ had come to know him too well, though. “You mistake me. That was an order.”

Nicator had chuckled at that, though he wished he hadn’t with the way it had pulled his skin apart. Antias had cupped the back of his neck in reassurance, had watched his eyes, and then had moved aside when the _milites medici_ swept onto the site to see to the fallen.

When he’d awoken a full day and a half later there’d been a _medicus_ quietly mixing something in the corner of the room in which they’d placed him. Nicator’s mouth had felt too dry to call out to him, but he must have made some sound because the short man turned to look back at him quickly enough. When he’d crossed to the fallen Centurion’s side it was with a palm full of herbs and a cup of water.

He’d chewed the greens and swallowed them down with the water as instructed. The physician had listed his injuries, including several lacerations, the mending hole in his shoulder, and the slash along his ribs. Had the last one been any deeper it would’ve damaged his bones, apparently. They’d stopped the bleeding immediately and had managed to stave away infection.

Felicitas must have spoken to Febris on his behalf for that small miracle.

Or perhaps the overwhelming smell of vinegar had had something to do with it.

The _medicus_ had left after helping him get to a slightly more comfortable position. He’d wanted to sit up, but the cut in his side had prevented him from being allowed to do so. For long moments he’d laid there, eyes staring up at the ceiling above him, mind cataloguing his pain in lieu of a distraction.

When one had finally walked through the door, he’d been ready to welcome it wholeheartedly. All the better that it had been Antias.

His _Legatus_ had smiled at the sight of him. “Good to see you following orders, even upon your supposed deathbed.” He’d sat upon said bed, careful not to inadvertently touch the wounded officer. “They tell me you’re through the worst of it.”

“What an honor to be told by my _Legatus_ ,” Nicator had said in jest. “The _medicus_ told me nothing but where my wounds are located. Will I recover fully?”

Antias had looked him over slowly. “In time.”

“How much of it do I need?”

“To get out of this bed, walk about, and give orders again? A week, perhaps?” He’d touched Nicator’s wrist and considered the circle of bandages over a cut on his forearm. “To fight as you always have? Three weeks, to allow every part of you to heal.”

A week would have driven him mad, so he’d silently vowed to limit the term to two days. Walking would do him better than memorizing the walls of his room, after all.

“I would give you more,” Antias had said.

Nicator had snapped his eyes to him. “Have you found me to be a patient man?”

“Only where money is involved,” his friend had laughed. “But you mistake me yet again.” He’d lifted his hand and waved it through the air. “I would send you back to Roma.”

The younger man held himself still in consideration for his wounds, though his instinct had been to bolt upright. “I have six years left to serve.”

“And I’m going to relieve you of them, fool,” his _legatus_ had said wryly. “You’ll receive full honors as befitting the way you’ve led your men. Especially since you almost died for them.”

He hadn’t been trying to die for them. He’d been trying to keep them alive as required as a Centurion so as to avoid demotion. To avoid more men having to lament the loss of their friends while he sought to refill their ranks. To save himself a headache.

He’d just been too near sighted and had forgotten to avoid the body aches.

“I didn’t do anything for them.”

Antias had motioned to his torso. “Lucky blows, then? You must be losing your edge… or you wish to call your men liars.”

“You know what they’re like towards their commanders,” Nicator had dismissed. “I said a few words and they felt emboldened.”

“As you say, though I would still do you this favor.”

“…You want me to give up six years of pay.”

“I do not; you will receive your _praemium_ when you get home. Twelve years of your salary.”

“But I will not receive my last six years.”

Antias had chuffed and shaken his head almost fondly. “I think I can petition for you.”

“Why?” the Centurion had wondered. “Why would you—”

“Nicator, accept the gift. I know you: you don’t want to grow older here. You told me of your father, and I know you don’t want to suffer the same with your mother.” He’d leveled him with those muddy eyes. “Accept this gift.”

And then there’d been no argument to make, so Nicator had not tried.

Just as his _Legatus_ had estimated, it had taken time to heal, but when he had fully recovered he’d been quick to get his unit’s affairs in order. He’d been quick to pick a man they would support after him. And then, with all his paperwork signed and favors forwarded, he’d been sent off across _Mare Nostrum_ to return home.

Antias had seen him off and had mused that they might one day meet back in Roma. At that time, Nicator had hoped it would become truth.

His return home had been another beginning.

The first thing he’d done was visit the _aerarium militare_ in order to obtain part of his _praemium_. He hadn’t wanted all of it, only enough to fill his pocket so that he could find his mother. It had not been difficult, since she’d never left their old _insula_ , nor her shop working as a seamstress.

She had shed tears upon seeing him, overwhelmed by her surprise and joy as she’d been. Nicator had stayed with her in the _insula_ that night, finding no shame in acting as a pillow when she’d refused to release him when sleep had come to claim them. In the morning she’d reluctantly went to her work, and he’d gone out to find a home befitting the _eques_ he’d become through his service.

He’d found a decent _domus_ that would do—with several _cubicula_ into one of which he’d planned to put his mother. He’d known he was also expected to put children in them. And to create children he’d have to find a wife. And to run a house he would need _servi_.

He hadn’t exactly been looking forward to the latter things, so he’d relished the look on his mother’s face when he’d taken her to their new home. He’d let her take one of the larger rooms and used her knowledge to help furnish the empty spaces, though it had all remained rather sparse and simple by the end because they hadn’t possessed many items to put into it.

What he had laid out proudly were some of her tapestries and rugs because he’d had no intention of letting her return to that shop as a worker ever again. He’d bought her a loom that she’d set up wherever she’d fancied, depending on the season. For the first time in her life she’d been able to pursue her craft and _enjoy_ it. And because more joy had gone into her work, her designs had blossomed and when they had sold some in the market just to see what the could get, they’d made more than she ever had toiling away for someone else.

And so, for the first few months at home they’d spent their time together, discussing his time abroad and the things he’d done and seen. They’d talked of all he’d missed in Roma. They’d talked about his father and his final years. She’d reassured him that he’d died proud of his son, and she’d backed the claim by presenting letters he’d dictated to her that Nicator might read them one day.

He kept them in a small, marble box under the bed in his _cubiculum_ and took to reading them whenever his guilt bore down on him, suspiciously as heavy as a Centurion’s armor might have been upon his shoulders.

An oddity for the first few months had been his hailing as a hero, greeted as an _eques_ , and fawned upon by the fathers and mothers of eligible maidens. Though it had been something he’d desired, it had somehow felt differently than he’d expected. So, he’d found himself sneaking out at night, revisiting the old taverns and back alleys where he used to drink and gamble and fuck. In those places he’d found plenty of his friends, older just as he was, eager to see and talk with him.

He’d found women and men to be with and vices to engage in. It hadn’t been at all unlike the behavior he’d traded in with his men back in the east. While he hadn’t been keen on the idea of risking his neck for Roma, he supposed it wasn’t so odd to miss the comradery of his men.

Yet, still, he’d known time spent indulging himself now that he was back was limited. He’d always known. So, it hadn’t come as a surprise to him that one morning, while he and his mother had been breaking their fast, she’d brought up the topic of finding a wife and creating a family.

As was expected of any Roman citizen.

And Nicator had not argued.

Plenty of young women had been marched before him by their fathers, both _eques_ and _plebeians_ alike. He hadn’t been familiar with any of them, which had not come as a surprise seeing how far he’d moved his mother from that urban living. The _eques_ maids offered up to him had been daughters of soldiers like himself, urged by the recommendations that had followed Nicator across the sea, bolstered by Antias’ support. The _plebeians_ had been mostly well sustained, but having their daughters married to a glorified Centurion would be a large social boost for them.

In the end, as he’d grown up as one, he chose a _plebeian_ to raise up out of her status. It hadn’t necessarily been out of the kindness of his heart, however. He’d chosen the most beautiful of the daughters presented to him, thinking that her willingness to engage in conversation meant she wouldn’t be timid with him for too long after their marriage.

It had been yet another new beginning. And the wrong choice.

He might have known the day after the priest had blessed them and she’d surveyed his home as if they’d been living in a cave. He hadn’t been half as annoyed as he should have been because she could decorate every last wall if she’d so desired. The problem had come when she’d paused at his mother’s room and gave a long, considering look inside it.

“I have not known a mother to remain in her married son’s _domus_.”

Nicator had, especially in cases like his own where a father was no longer among the living to provide for her. But he’d felt no need to justify that to the woman before him. “Now you have.”

She’d immediately plastered a patient smile upon her lips. “Why not buy her own?”

And that might have been another hint at the problems he’d have with her, but with a relationship a few days old he hadn’t been as observant as he should have been. “Because I want her here.”

The smile had widened to reach her dark eyes. Perhaps that had been his distraction. “You are a good son and it gives me hope for our children.”

And yet, still, for the months after it had become clear that his wife had been tolerating his mother’s presence. She’d taken over the household, which Nicator had expected considering a _domus_ was supposed to be the domain of a Roman matron. She’d set about the tasks quickly and efficiently, perhaps lavishly so. Each room she’d filled with ornate furniture. Each wall she’d had painted with the most fashionable frescoes. Each chest she’d filled with colorful clothes.

She would not set foot in the kitchens, and in fact had rapidly grown bored with her husband and his mother’s cooking. Just as she’d rapidly grown discontented with having to be part of the upkeep of their household and the retrieval of their own water. And so, she’d filled their extra rooms with _servi_ , whom she’d relished in ordering about.

The people she’d chosen were expensive, though they were highly skilled and kind. Nicator had enjoyed their accents and they’d seemed pleased by his allowance that they talk freely in front of him.

One had been a scribe and so he’d worked to help Nicator manage and understand the finances of his _praemium_. He’d been granted a lot, but his _servus_ made clear that his wife’s excesses had drained them of quite a bit. Now that she had, however, he wondered how much more she could spend.

She’d claimed her purchases had the benefit of ingratiating them within their new social class, which the former Centurion had greatly neglected in his time home. Apparently, it had been expected of him to form relationships with patrons, some kind of ritual that involved him standing around in the morning in some senator’s hall waiting to be called upon so that he could offer his services.

Nicator’s problem had been that he hadn’t had services to offer. Nor had he been he sure that his pride would allow him to capitulate to some stuffy noble after the headstrong, commendable men he’d followed already. Those men had proven themselves. These men… well, they were hardly men at all and the idea of prostrating himself before them had infuriated him.

And so, he’d relied upon the money he had rightfully earned out of spite. His wife had still forced him to go to the _forum_ , to make acquaintances with others of their _standing_ if only to boost her newfound ego. He’d gone through the motions for her, though he’d found no joy in the conversations foisted upon them. No value to the falsehoods and blustering of the nobles around him. In fact, more often or not he’d entertained himself in the back with the _servi_ and servants, gambling and joking in the language of the poor.

And so, for a year and a half this dance had gone on: humoring his wife and entertaining himself under the cover of nightfall.

She’d hated these failings of his, but they’d paled in comparison to the most important one: his inability to get her with child.

In Roman society such a thing was commonly believed to be the fault of the wife. Nicator had known that wasn’t the truth; he’d _known_ it to be his fault, and one morning he’d reassured her as much. And that morning, that had been the moment he’d recognized how he’d ignored the signs of their incapability.

She’d berated him, belittled him, derided him, and had laughed at the concept of his virility.

Had she been a man, Nicator would have struck her. But she had not been born one and she’d been his wife and as cruel as her words, he’d borne them in silence until he could no longer. When he’d retreated to their garden one day after breaking, he’d found his mother waiting.

He’d sat at her feet and helped her at the loom in silence, eyes unfocused and mind lost until her words had fallen upon him.

“You’re not happy,” she’d observed.

“I’m happy at this moment,” he’d returned, looking up at her from the ground.

She had set her work aside and regarded him. “I fear to give you guidance… was it not my guidance that led you here?”

“It was not,” he’d protested. “How could it have been?”

“Your father and I wanted you to have a blessed life—and we thought to help you obtain it through the Roman ways. We put that in your mind… and it led you to the military. You wanted to bring honor to our name and now it’s led you here, into a marriage that pains you.”

Nicator had taken up one of her hands and smiled the genuine way he only could with her. “Do not put blame on yourself. I never have. I never will.” He’d thumbed over her calluses. “…And I was good at serving. I was a good soldier. There was never much of anything else I’ve ever been good at.”

“That’s not true.” She had cupped his jaw and tilted his head up. Her eyes were the same color as his. “There is so much you could do but you’ve felt as though you had to do what as expected.”

“Well, I can barely do that,” he’d murmured. “As you’ve heard from my wife.”

She’d thumbed the growth on his skin. “Would you truly enjoying fathering children with a woman you despise?”

He had blinked at her. “…They’d be mine. They’d be of the Umbricia _gens_.”

His mother had kissed his forehead, the flutter of a laugh warm on his skin. “My son, you are the proof of your father and mine’s love. There was nothing else in our minds but to have something born of our devotion.”

_And I’ve only ever been failing you_ , he’d wanted to say.

“I did not lie about his love or pride for you. Nor mine,” she said. “All I want is your happiness. What can guarantee that?”

He’d covered her hand and smiled. “Never die?”

She’d chuckled with him, but it was something she could not promise him. He’d meant it but had only said it out loud in the hopes that perhaps, for once, the gods would listen. He’d had no hope in it or them, not when he’d known she’d already been hiding her fatigue from him. Then the coughs had come.

When she’d eventually been confined to her bed, his wife, callous and in an act Nicator considered the final betrayal, had departed from their home to stay with her father. To give him time alone, she’d said. To be away from the illness, he’d known.

He’d told her to remain there.

It had been during this time that his _servi_ informed him of her spending. He’d sat and counted over the money, regarded all of the useless trinkets in their home, thought on her grand outfits, and hated her for it. The way she’d hated him for gambling some of it away. The way she’d hated him for what he’d spent on physicians to help ease his mother’s pain.

He’d been too exhausted to act on it. Too weary and pained to do much but sit beside his mother, tell her tales, and watch her grow weaker and weaker. To be with her until she crossed into the afterlife in his arms.

Grief stricken, he’d paid more than well for her ashes to be placed with her husband’s in a tomb that would honor them. He’d had it placed outside the city, as the law required, but upon the street with the nobles so that pilgrims and travelers would see their names and their love for one another. In his mourning he lost much of his time there, kneeling and praying as he’d never done in his life.

His prayer had not been aimed at the gods. Only at the souls of his parents, that they might forgive him.

It had been after one of these visits, hours long as it was, that he’d returned to a mostly empty _domus_. He hadn’t found it so odd, as he’d long begun to sell off all the superfluous items no longer needed in his house in order to stay above debt. What had been odd was his _servi_ , standing to the side with their heads bowed, as his former wife and her brothers had walked out with chests full of items he’d yet to auction. He could see that these were things primarily bought for her, and coincidentally by her. Mostly it had been her clothing and jewelry, but it had been the last of the loot that had made him start.

Her siblings had been trying to leave with his _mother’s_ tapestries and rugs, rolled and slumped over their shoulders.

He’d made towards the younger one, halting when his wife stepped in his way. “What are you doing?” he’d demanded. “Those were my mother’s. They were here before you were!”

“We are divorcing, Nicator,” she’d said, condescending and pointedly. “You do know what that means? I am to be returned my dowry. You have already sold what you can—what we’ve collected barely covers it.”

“Put them back,” he had growled.

“I will not sell them,” she’d informed him. “Do you have what you need to return my dowry to my father?”

He’d thought on the things he’d given up already and the coins he’d tucked away. He’d had plans for every last one of them and now everything was in an upheaval. He had looked from her to where their _servi_ stood, arms clasped at their fronts and chins tucked down to keep their eyes averted. He hadn’t wanted them, but the woman before him had used his money to purchase them.

He was as responsible as she was.

Nicator had motioned to them. “If you take what I have they’ll have nothing when they become _libertini_.”

“You plan to _free_ them?” she’d squawked. “You’d do better to sell them! That would at least ensure the return of your mother’s work.”

They had done well to keep their eyes downcast, and unless one had known them as he had, they would not guess at their despair. He could see it. He could see it in their brows, in the minute tremble of their lips and limbs.

His soon to be former wife had sighed, guessing at his thoughts. “Then free them—you need not give them anything. They want to be free then they must learn. That is not your responsibility.”

He hadn’t agreed.

“Cast them out, sell what you have left, and return what you owe of my dowry. You may not be much of one, but you are an _eques_ and a former Centurion. Find a magistrate and petition to become a _lictor_.”

_Lictors_ were glorified bodyguards and attendants. They were men, former Centurions preferably, who served any politician or civil servant who held any sort of _imperium_. They were the noble men Nicator despised; the ones who had never known suffering during war nor the gnawing of hunger in winter.

His pride had curdled at the idea of serving one, but something inside him seemed to coalesce into acceptance all the same.

And so, his wife and her brothers had left that day with what they could and Nicator had absolved the _servi_ of their believed faults. Had they set a hand on a citizen it would have meant death for them. They’d been in the right to stand aside, especially with freedom so close in their future.

With them and that in mind, he had done what he’d dreaded, though ultimately, it hadn’t worked out the way he wanted, either. The noble he’d chosen laughed at the idea of Nicator, or what he’d come to understand through rumor and slander. He’d claimed he hadn’t needed another _Lictor_ , especially not a drunken brute who should have stayed in the army. When he’d questioned the former soldier’s virility regarding his lack of children, Nicator, shamed and aggrieved and _lost_ , had broken his nose.

So, he _had_ needed another _Lictor_ after all.

Nicator had been told he’d been lucky to walk away from the courts with a fine, but that hadn’t been the truth. His anger and impulses had left him in a larger deficit than before and, after spending another night hunched over his scrolls and obsessing over his remaining money, he could not discover a way to reverse all his mistakes. Certainly, he could not find a way to keep his _domus_ or his mother’s work.

So many people had told him: he was not an intelligent man. Clever, maybe. Strong, yes. With the looming of a new beginning it was the latter two he’d have to come to rely on.

The beginning of his new life had come when he’d sold the deed to his _domus_. The last morning inside of it he’d called in his _servi_ and signed the parchments to set them free. To each of the three he’d gifted hefty bags of coin, enough to guarantee them good beginnings and safe lodging until they found professions. He’d sent them from him with one last task—to take the remaining bag of money to his divorcee.

It had not been enough to have the tapestries and rugs returned to him, but there’d been no keeping them where he intended to go.

He knew his mother would forgive him, had she seen the faces of the three new _libertini_ as they set out into Roma.

He too had set out from the home, leaving behind all that he could not carry. What he had taken was the little marble box containing his father’s letter and the few paltry coins he hadn’t needed to send the shrew’s way. With that tucked into his side to ward against thieves, he’d marched to the center of Roma and did not stop until he stood outside of the _Ludus Magnus_ , the largest gladiatorial school in all of the empire.

After sparing several moments considering the imposing height of the Flavian Amphitheatre, he’d stepped into the school.

Once they were back in the safety of the _hypogeum_ Atrox was quick to put as much distance between them as he could manage. Nicator let him go nurse the wounds suffered by both his body and mind. He’d live to fight again, though his future opponents would be more suited to his skill level. That was the last he thought of him, as well, especially when the other performers of the day shouted out their congratulations. Or clapped heavy hands to his back to convey it.

It was a smaller, though no less deadly hand that halted him completely. When he turned it was to grin at the pretty, but dirtied face of Rhoda. She was currently one of the _gladiatrix_ of renown. Certainly, she was one all of his _familia_ respected. The fact that she could probably beat most of them had drawn Nicator to approach her on one of the days they had brought the women to train in their _Ludus Magnus_ that bored citizens might entertain themselves between errands.

She’d begun fighting around the same time he had but that was only one thing on the list of their similarities. Like him, she’d had another name once, but had taken to the moniker dispensed upon her readily enough. It must have been easy since she’d been named after the island from which she’d hailed. She was a strong fighter, as well. And, again, just like him she had yet to lose a fight.

He knew she wanted to keep it that way, because winning fights was the only way to fill their purses enough to purchase their way out of Roma.

In her case, her freedom needed to be bought before she could ever consider setting foot on a ship.

“Good fight, Roman,” she told him.

“As was yours,” he replied honestly. He followed her down the cramped ramp and into the narrow halls. “I can still see your moves coming, though.”

“So long as you are the only one,” Rhoda retorted. She turned to him once they had absconded to an alcove out of sight. “Though I fear that won’t be the case.”

Nicator tilted his head in question, propping himself on a nearby pillar.

“Are you to fight in the festivities next week?”

“I would be surprised if not,” he answered plainly, though he had not been told directly as of yet.

“As am I… and I fear I will be pitted against one of Ordius’ women.”

The former Centurion straightened up, the smirk he’d worn ever since the end of his fight drooping. He wanted to argue that their _lanista_ Bellicus would never arrange that, in part because he detested Ordius and his penchant for obtaining the deadliest fighters in the empire. It was why he’d been so eager to accept Nicator’s terms the day he’d given his _auctoratio_.

It was why he’d snatched Rhoda up, as well. If he was pitting her against Ordius’ fighters it was because he believed she could win and subsequently deal blows to both the smug man’s psyche and purse. Of course, her worry was warranted. Ordius’ fighters underwent the harshest training and they lived for the glory of the arena.

And every match in which they contended their opponents were killed.

The only exception was where the _gladiatrix_ were concerned. He tried to reassure her as much. “The only women who have died in the arena have been accidents. Bellicus would not have you fight if he thought you would lose.”

“And if it is made to look as an accident?” Rhoda asked.

Nicator sighed, glancing down the hall. “You want me to find out.”

“He listens to you,” his friend explained. “And if it’s true my current _doctore_ will not suffice. You know this.”

He did. The dilemma before them was that it was not customary for _gladiatrix_ to train outside of their own _collegia_. When they came to the _Ludus Magnus_ it was usually marketed towards horny old nobles. To get what she wanted he would have to shake Bellicus’ faith in her. Only then could he assure that Rhoda train with him and his _doctore_ to improve her skills in time.

Nicator sighed again. “I will discuss it with his son,” he promised her. “He tells Lucius everything and if I can convince him he will do the work on his father.”

“I give thanks to you,” she replied. “What favor would you ask of me?”

She knew him all too well for too few months. “I would save it for when I know.”

“Of course you would,” Rhoda said. There was a loud yell that echoed throughout the halls and chambers of the _hypogeum_. They were calling the _gladiatrix_ back to their _collegia_. She stepped by him to answer it.

“You do not get to celebrate in the _Ludus Magnus_ today?” Nicator asked. “Francus will shed tears at your absence!”

She only answered with a disgruntled groan before she was lost to the twist and turns of the architecture. The gladiator was sure his snickers followed her out.

The _Ludus Magnus_ was only a short distance from the Flavian Amphitheater and so after a day of games it was customary for the combatants to walk out from the huge structure to the amusement of the crowds. Most had gone home, but many viewers wished to see their favorite gladiators up close. That is, if they were lucky enough to be standing in the right place.

Some were: plebs of all colors and sizes, excited and cheering. The elites had crowded forward to get their fill, too, though they ensured apathy was plastered on their faces. There were some young nobles, handsome youths of both genders, that had not learned to hide their fascination. It amused him greatly when they subtly reached out with their fingers to touch just like the lowly plebs did.

Inside their own training arena and out of view, most men dropped their fighting facades. Their shoulders slumped and their hands reached to soothe their aches. Nicator assumed he was the only one without the false alter ego.

Almost immediately the familiar figure of his _doctore_ walked up to him. Though, truthfully, the man was so large that Nicator would need to have his eyes gouged to miss him. He was also a man who, though he had never had his name taken from him, preferred to be called by his profession.

“Another win, I’ve heard,” he said, his Aethiopian accent lilting the words.

The former Centurion made a disappointed sound. “I wished to tell you so I could bask in your praise.”

Doctore snorted. “The day I do that is the day you thank me for your training.”

Nicator snorted right back, heading for the hall that would lead him to the bathing room designated for his _familia_. “I knew how to fight before I came here!”

“And yet I will see you for training when the sun dawns!” his mentor called.

The gladiator did not argue, nor would he ever deny the help the older man had given him. Doctore was a retired combatant of the highest merit. He’d fought for Bellicus and had stayed after earning his freedom when the other old man had asked for his help training the newcomers. While Nicator would probably have been able to make it this far without that training, he would not deny that his help had made it easier to survive and adapt to combat that was far different than his military training had ever been.

He still wasn’t about to admit it out loud, however.

The bath wasn’t empty, though it was only Nicator who was covered in the grime and dust of the arena. The rest were weary and dusty from the training yard. Some gave him a nod that he returned as he loosened his _subligaculum_ and tossed it to one of the stone seats near the wall. They were all quiet and he almost expected it to remain so, to have a few moments to relax before the door rattled open once again.

When he spared a glance, he could only sigh and try to distract himself by sluicing water off his shoulder.

His roommate, a tall man from Germania was the intruder. Normally his face was split in a provoking grin, but now his forehead was heavily wrinkled in disappointment. Nicator didn’t have to guess why.

“You fight winning?” he asked, preceding the question he truly wanted to ask.

The former Centurion wiped at his other shoulder. “’Did you win your fight?’” he corrected the heavily mangled Latin. “I did.”

The other gladiator, whom Bellicus had renamed Francus to avoid the disdain his _barbaric_ name would have invoked in the masses, waved his hand in dismissal. “Glad not dead. Rhoda not here?”

Nicator chuckled and shook his head. The Germani had recently been acquired two months ago. He’d been another instance of Bellicus seeing what others had not, though he had taken a risk procuring him and hoping that the citizens of Roma would cheer for him. All his other fighters were either of Roman or Graecian descent. Francus was his only Germani and though there was peace between the land’s tribes and Roma, most citizens were slow to forget their history or their contempt.

Francus had expressed disdain of his own, at a great many things in the city of Roma, from her society and culture to her language. Much of his broken raving had been indiscernible to Nicator until he’d practically been forced to help him understand basic phrases. However, he’d been more willing to capitulate to his surroundings once he’d set eyes on Rhoda.

Nicator had never believed those romantic poems that dwelled on the beauties of old. Especially not after his experiences. And yet somehow, when he’d seen Francus’ jaw slacken and his eyes widen, as wide as an actor’s mask once he’d seen Rhoda, they were the first thing he recalled.

“They took the _gladiatrix_ back to their _collegia_.”

Francus tilted his head in confusion.

“Back to their training hall.” He sat within the water and put his arms along the edge. “She won. Fought like Nemesis herself.”

“I not have doubt,” the Germani said though he most likely did not know who Nemesis was. “When she come?”

“’When will she come?’” Nicator humored him. “When I know I will tell you.”

Francus sat on the edge of the bath and crossed his arms over his chest. Nicator would have teased him for pouting had the other man understood the word for it. As it was, he craned his head back to look at him.

“Are you going to sit there this entire time? Go find someone else to bother.”

“All call me _barbarus_.”

“You are a _barbarus_.”

“What meaning?”

“It’s what they call anyone who isn’t of Roman or Graecian descent,” a new voice supplied. The door had opened so quietly they had missed it and it was shut much the same way. Lucius offered them a smile as he neared.

“You?” Francus pointed at the darker man.

The _lanista_ ’s son gave him a look because the answer was obvious.

“I’d think anyone would be too scared to call a Roman citizen as such,” Nicator commented wryly. “Especially when your resemblance to your father is so uncanny.”

“Always so humorous, aren’t you, Centurion?”

Lucius’ true parents had been from some part of Africa. Romans had a habit of naming anyone with dark skin an Aethiopian, though not all were. Like the Germani, it was known that there were several lands and tribes with different names. But as a matter of convenience it was easier to have a name to differentiate peoples who did not cultivate olives and grapes as they did as _barbarus_.

Which made sense to Nicator—a life without wine _was_ very barbaric.

Still, the name never seemed to fit Lucius. His Latin was flawless and his mastery of bureaucracy even more so. According to rumors he’d been born in Roma and one day had been found roaming the streets by Bellicus and after which he’d been adopted. The story seemed a little convenient, but Nicator didn’t care to question it. Adoption was rather common in their society and since their _lanista_ did not have children of his body why not one of his mind and heart?

“My father wishes to see you once you’re finished,” Lucius informed him.

“I’m glad you came to tell me yourself,” the gladiator said. “I wish to speak to you.” He gave the pale man over his shoulder a look. “Alone.”

Francus surely understood but did not exit as the other men did.

“Francus, return to your _cubiculum_ ,” Lucius ordered.

The Germani bared his teeth in displeasure but obeyed, though he grumbled in his language until their ears could no longer hear.

“Be brief, lest we keep my father waiting.”

“He will blame me, and you know it,” the bigger man laughed. “But as you say. I’m to fight in the festival games this coming week?”

“All our gladiators are.”

“And what of your _gladiatrix_?”

Lucius raised his eyebrows knowingly. “You mean to ask after Rhoda for Francus?”

“For herself. She seems to believe she is set to fight one of Ordius’ women.”

The dark face wrinkled. “Who told you such things?”

“It was a feeling she had, but now I see it for truth.” The other man needed to learn to guard his expressions if he wished to take his father’s business one day. “Which fighter?”

Lucius sighed. “She is called Aspra.”

Now Nicator’s face contorted. “That’s a repugnant name.”

“She’s a repugnant woman.”

“But she can fight.” He did not phrase it as a question. “Do you intend for Rhoda to lose?”

“You know that is the last thing my father would want. Why would she lose?”

“Bring her to train here and _Doctore_ and I will assure she won’t.”

Lucius frowned at him and then considered one of the walls. “I will discuss this with Bellicus.” He made for the door. “Dress and come to his office.”

Bellicus was born the second son of a _lanista_. As such, he had never believed he’d inherit his father’s profession. As many second sons of higher rank did, he’d decided to enter the military instead. As his name attested, he’d been very good at it.

It’s why Nicator had chosen the man as the person to cosign himself to. If it was going to be anyone, he wanted it to be another soldier, not a man who had been bathing in coins bloodied by his fighters all his life. There was a grudging respect between them because of this, even if the old man grew as tired of his crude wit as almost everyone else did.

By now he knew to circumvent any taunting words by speaking first and curtly. Now he dropped a small bag of coins onto his desk and gestured towards it. “Your cut. I’ll put it with the rest.”

“Doesn’t seem to be much,” Nicator said, eying the pitiful size of it.

“Atrox didn’t seem to be much of a fighter,” Bellicus retorted. “That’s from your legitimate earnings.”

“And my earnings from the betting pool?” Those were always done in the shadows, in secret places where everyone could pretend they weren’t a reality.

“There was no faith in Atrox. I earned barely anything from that fight.”

“Yet you earned something,” Nicator accused, “and so I should get a share of it.”

Lucius scoffed from where he was leaning against the wall, but the gladiator did not look to him. He was too busy matching the glare the old veteran was weighing upon him.

“You swore your _auctoratio_ to me,” Bellicus reminded him. “That means you submit to my decisions.”

“We made a deal,” Nicator retorted. “Part of it was the stipulation that I am _not_ your _servus_.”

The _lanista_ made a sound in his throat, close to a growl though not so threatening. It was more exasperated than anything. “And I have never treated you as such, have I? We both know we have to play our roles in public.” He shrugged his weary shoulders. “And you made your own promises. The only one I care about is the money.” He smacked the tiny purse across his desk. “You said you would win and bring money and fame to my _familia gladiatorium_.”

“Have I lost?”

“You have not and so with these _missio_ fights no one will bet against you.”

Nicator clenched his jaw and watched as Lucius crossed to take his earnings and put them away with the rest in their locked chest. Briefly he caught a glimpse of his marble box within.

“If you still want to earn enough to pay me off and leave Italia, something has to change.”

“He’s received well enough by all of Roma,” Lucius interjected. “Why not make an endorsement deal?”

“Fine,” Nicator agreed readily enough. He could hock some wine or oil. Anything to put more wealth and awareness to his name.

“You’re fine with whoring yourself out that way but refuse to have anymore… _meetings_.” Bellicus scratched at his white beard. “Those noble women paid a lot of money.”

“And the last one you tried to foist on me was twice my age with the face of Vulcan. Needless to say, Priapus left me and I had to feign illness to avoid any slander.”

Lucius laughed but relented. “We’ll be more discerning.”

Nicator grunted. “And if I’m ever discovered they’ll have me fed to the beasts. If I’m going to risk my life I’d rather have a weapon in hand.”

There was a moment of punctuated silence between them. Father and son shared a glance and Bellicus stepped out from behind his desk to approach his gladiator. He assessed the big man slowly.

“You’re willing to fight _sine missione_?”

“What does it matter?” the former Centurion asked, smirking to appear surer than he felt. “I’m not going to lose.”

The _lanista_ huffed. “You know this means going up against the best men.” He searched the younger man’s face. “Ordius’ men.”

“You’ve wanted to topple his _familia_ for a while. Who else is going to do it for you? Francus? I was a Centurion of Roma’s legions. You’ve heard how they cheer for me.”

“They also cheer for his men,” Lucius said. “Spilled blood is blood.”

“And I’ve spilled a lot so arrange the matches,” Nicator snapped harsher than he meant. He leveled gray eyes on a likewise grayed man. “His _familia gladiatorium_ has a lot of money. If I fell each of his fighters will it be enough?”

“Enough to book a spot on a ship to take you far from Roma,” Bellicus said, speaking directly to the other Roman’s plainest desires. “And with what’s left? You can buy a villa and live a wealthy man for the rest of your days.”

For Nicator choosing between his options was not an issue. The first would have him continue to perform safely for the entertainment of the crowds and small coin purses, forcing him to toil away for _years_ until old age claimed him. The second was to chance death for a few months and earn enough to retire in the prime of his life, somewhere he could be warm with a full winecup always in hand.

The second choice also came with another perk he couldn’t deny. Beating Ordius’ men meant his name would be remembered for all time. It wasn’t the same as his family name being continued, but it seemed fitting for the son of a seamstress and stone worker to be the wonder of the upper classes that had always dismissed them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a lot and I'm so grateful you've read through it! Stay tuned for the boys' fated meeting!


	3. III - Elissaios

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The festival of Quinquatria is upon Roma and that means a day of feasting followed by four days of Gladiatorial games. As the central focus of these days, Elissaios has multiple chances to see the fighters up close, including the famous Centurion Nicator. Or is it infamous?
> 
> And is seeing them 'up close' close enough?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around! Here are some terms for this chapter!
> 
> Colossus Soli - A giant statue that stood outside of the Colosseum (and from where derived its name!). This was originally a golden statue of Nero placed within the area he'd taken after the Great Fire of Rome to build his Golden House. When it was razed to the ground to build the Colosseum the statue was placed outside, though its head was replaced with Sol's so that it would be a statue to the god of light.
> 
> Thalia - The goddess/muse of comedy.
> 
> Cena - Although this had started out as lunchtime, by the time of the empire (and this story) this had shifted to dinner.
> 
> Algea - Children of the goddess Eris (Strife); they are personifications of pain, grief, and sorrow - so the physical and mental pains a person undergoes.
> 
> Meum Cor - "My heart"
> 
> Basilica Aemilia - A basilica is a large public building in Rome - it can be used for anything political or social. The Basilica Aemilia is one of many within the Forum and one of the two most famous of this time. https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/67/Basilica_Aemilia_3D.jpg
> 
> Retiarius - The gladiator who fought with minimal armor, a net, and a trident so he can capture his foe and stab from afar.
> 
> Laquearius - A very rare version of the Retiarius; instead of a net he fought with a lasso and a dagger.
> 
> Cestus - Another rare form of gladiator, these hulking men fought with brass knuckles!
> 
> Diamachaerus - A gladiator who fights with minimal armor and two swords. Very rare, deadly, and anticipated.
> 
> Dirae - Roman equivalent of the Furies - they were underworld (Cthonic) deities who could be invoked to take vengeance on men who swore false oaths, committed moral crimes, or committed murder (especially of one's own family).
> 
> Spartan Creed - This is a reference to the strict Spartan code. There are some famous sayings, but this is a reference to Spartans not taking wounds on their back because they never run from a fight or turn from battle.

Astonished as he had been, Elissaios had been caught up in the momentum of the crowd surrounding him. There had been no doubt for him that Nicator would claim victory. Not with his legendary prowess. Still, he had relished the sight of him fighting in a way that was so foreign. It was certainly unlike the way they had been taught in the military.

Nicator’s movements had been more fluid than any soldier fighting in the column could ever be. It had been adaptive and measured, prepared to endure whatever attack his opponent attempted. It had been mesmerizing.

Even exiting out of the arena with a brother at each of his sides, Elissaios’ mind was recalling each dash and pivot, each slice and cut.

“Father said to meet him at the base of the _Colossus Soli_ ,” Procus informed them. He was peering out over the crowd, a boon his height allowed him.

Elissaios made to follow him, but Felix, ever affectionate and physical, wound his arm around his youngest brother’s shoulders to stop him. “Go to him, we will follow.”

Their elder did not seem pleased with the dismissal but knew well enough to discern between the nefarious and innocent natures of his sibling’s playfulness. Now he sensed the latter and waved his hand placatingly to allow Elissaios to benefit from it. “Do not take long.”

Felix chuckled and gently guided Elissaios towards the _Porta Sanivivaria_ , the exit through which victors left the arena. There was a sizeable crowd, but it parted easily enough for the duo to slip to the front, most likely by the grace of their _togas_. At the front, people were clamoring in excitement, most young boys or the few unashamed, _plebeian_ women.

His brother gave that soft laugh again from where he was leaning upon Elissaios’ shoulders. “I thought you might like to see your hero up close.”

“Father would be mortified if he knew I was standing in wait for one who has suffered _infamia_ ,” the former soldier said dutifully, though he cared not for the truth of his words.

The arms upon him relinquished, replaced by comforting hands as Felix stood. He had shifted so that he could speak directly into the smaller man’s ear. “It was his idea for you to see the games! Look around, little brother—all wish to see their champions and it has always been so. There is no shame in wanting to see a man you once so dearly worshipped.”

Elissaios tapped his elbow back into Felix’s stomach as an admonition.

Not a moment later, the crowd’s din began to rise in response to the echoing footsteps marching through the archway. The male combatants were a raucous bunch, reveling in the attention doused upon them by the cheering spectators. He supposed it was to be expected with the excitement of their victories still thrumming through their veins.

Nicator was easy to see amongst his peers for he was taller and far more serene compared to their lude words and gestures. That was not to say he was not enjoying the furor. There was a quirk to his lips and his light eyes were travelling over his audience, though Elissaios did not think he could take note of them all.

Part of him thought the crowd’s fascination with him was justified— _obligatory_. But he knew they did not know him as Elissaios did. They did not remember him as a hero of the east, someone deserving of laudation. They only saw him as he was now—a fighter, an entertainer, a handsome man living on fleeting moments of popularity.

And he couldn’t begrudge them that, not now that he was seeing that powerful body up close. It was as though he were staring at Mars incarnate.

It was a silly analogy, one that made his face bloom when gray eyes alighted on him for just a breath. It was a breath Elissaios held, though the gladiator’s gaze moved quickly away. Still, the light color of his eyes made the part of the noble that had lamented his fate flutter away, as if it had somehow become disconnected from his self to float along the breeze above them. All that remained was his puerile awe.

It felt as though it were energizing him, leading him to lift his hand from his side as Nicator passed, just as so many others were. They were all packed so tightly into the space, so close, that he did not need some miraculous reach. He simply sought with his fingers and was able to feel the warm, sweaty skin skim right beneath them.

_Virtus_ , he thought impulsively. _He is not Mars but Virtus._

Both the god and the virtue – manly and courageous, as all Romans aspired to be.

It made watching his figure return to the _Ludus Magnus_ all the more sobering, as if his noble sensibilities had dusted back down upon his crown and shoulders.

Fortunately, it seemed as though his father and elder brother could not discern his melancholy from the small smile he graced them with upon finding them at the base of the colossal statue. They were talking with other men of their rank, to whom they introduced or reintroduced Elissaios when he approached. Dutifully, he walked behind his father, elder brother, and these men while they spoke, as befitting of his station. Felix kindly walked at his side, teasing him here and there, until finally his father’s peers left them.

Celsus put a hand upon his shoulder. “How did you enjoy the match, my son?”

“I… was surprised,” Elissaios replied, unwilling to admit and unable to explain the contradictory turmoil he now harbored inside his chest.

“Surprised and enraptured,” his ever-Thalia-blessed brother added. “His eyes could not be waylaid from the sight of his venerated Centurion fighting before him.”

He glared, tempted to retaliate with a swift elbow as he had before, but remained under his father’s hand so as not to draw any eyes upon them. The senator was chuckling at his middle son, anyway, the fatherly way he always did at the harmless joy.

“He is a sight,” Celsus commented. “It is a wonder he has adapted to the different fighting styles so well, but it has made him well celebrated among the masses.” He paused, looking back, which his three heirs mimicked. They’d walked far enough to be out of the thick of the crowds but not far enough that they could not look back upon them. Then he squeezed his youngest’s shoulder again. “We will make sure we get you seats for the _Quinquatria_ games.”

They continued and Elissaios fell to step beside the elder man. “You think he will fight again so soon?” It was not usually the way of things. Gladiators tended to be well cared for and protected for how wealthy they could make their _lanista_. Most contestants fought only a few times a year, never mind within two weeks of their last.

“With three days of games his master would lose a considerable sum if he did not,” Procus answered from behind them. “His matches have been _missio_ so far, so I can’t imagine he wouldn’t be rested enough.”

Elissaios bristled at the title, at the idea that someone could _own_ a man such as Nicator, but he could not deny that the thought of seeing the former Centurion fight again so soon excited him. He also knew it to be unwise to argue with his elders in a public space and so he swallowed his response and left his conflicting feelings to wage against each other inside him until they crossed the threshold of his father’s house.

His mother came to them when she was notified of their return. She once again pulled him down to place a kiss between his eyes, though now her hands were clean. Then she greeted Procus and Felix much the same. Her husband calmly waited his turn until he could be the one to gift _her_ a kiss upon her hairline.

“Will you both stay for _cena_?” she asked of her older sons.

“I must return home,” Procus replied, though he sounded apologetic about it, “but I will bring Clodia and the children tomorrow.” Here he smiled at Elissaios. “You will have to reintroduce yourself.”

The former soldier beamed at the prospect. “I’ve missed holding my niece. How much has she grown?”

“Enough to be entirely new to you. She takes after her mother, thankfully,” Felix snickered.

Their elder brother gave him a gentle push before turning back to Elissaios. “Do not let him get you into trouble now that you’re back.”

“That warning should be given to me,” the middle sibling announced. He reached over and cupped the former soldier’s face, purposefully squeezing his cheeks with the points of his fingers. “Look at this face; how could you deny it entertainment?”

“Felix will behave himself,” their father stated. “His tasks for tomorrow are separate than those I’ve prepared for Elissaios.”

His two younger children groaned, much to Aglaia’s amusement. “You may discuss Felix’s torture with him now, I wish to have some more time with our youngest.” She linked their arms and turned him from following the pair into Celsus’ office.

Together they walked back towards the garden, her favorite place, in companiable silence. At least, Elissaios thought that of it until his mother rounded on him when they were alone.

“Did you see your hero?” she asked innocently enough.

He wished he could have withheld his pout. He had long since been a man grown, after all. “I did.”

She smiled, a patient thing as if she were waiting for something vital to come from his mouth. When it did not, she posed another question: “Did you enjoy the matches?”

Elissaios looked over the designs around them. “I did.”

“You lie to me?”

“What makes you think I lie?”

“Many reasons. One is that you avoid my gaze.”

Elissaios frowned down at her. “I was looking at the garden!”

His mother chuckled and moved some of the wayward curls, so much like her own, out of his face. “You were not excited when you walked back into our home. You appeared very melancholy, _meum cor_.”

He did not want to addle her mind, but he also knew, better than anyone else, that she would welcome the burden if only to ease his worries. He also knew he was very fortunate to have her. “It… left me confused.”

“How so?”

The young Roman hesitated and was gradually led down to sit beside her on one of the decorative benches. Once sat she placed a hand on his forearm as if she knew the weight of the words he was to speak. It was a motherly skill she possessed, as if she had been bestowed with the foresight of Juno herself.

“I was surprised. He won and I knew he would. To see him fight was—it was exactly what I’d always imagined.” She did not inquire further but let him collect his thoughts. “But to see him as _infamia_ … How could such a thing happen to a hero of Roma?”

Aglaia squeezed his arm and canted her head away so that she could regard their surroundings. “I do not think we would know the truth from any lips but his own.”

Elissaios looked at her profile. “Then you have heard something?”

“Only rumors and whispered words. You know how these Romans enjoy squawking.”

“What did they say of him?”

“You and I both know it is not the truth.”

He felt his eyebrows curve, a pleading expression, one which he knew she would not deny.

“I will tell you only what I believe,” she informed him curtly. “…There was talk of a mismanagement of funds and even more of his appearance in the _plebeian_ betting halls. I do not know if this was the cause for the dissolution of his marriage—but she returned to her father’s house with her dowry and he took to the _harena_.”

Elissaios swallowed, eyes darting uselessly as his mind tried to comprehend this information. He did not know why he was so stunned to hear that Nicator had been married. Promotion to a Centurion made him an _eques_ and of course he would need to marry and continue his _gens_ as a son of Roma. He should have been more appalled about the gambling but truthfully even he had partaken whilst abroad. It seemed to be a right of passage for soldiers, though the half-Graecoi had quit once he’d proven to be utterly terrible at it.

It was a vice Roman men were not meant to continue once home. Especially not ones upheld as heroes.

But Nicator was only that within the amphitheater now, wasn’t he?

Elissaios wasn’t sure why that made something in him ache.

“He fought for Roma,” he said, pitiful even to his own ears. “It was as if none in the crowds knew it. As if they never knew him for anything more than the blood he spills for them.”

“Has it not always been the way for Roma? The masses remember those who keep them fed, safe, and entertained. Even then, only few men stand prevalent in their memories.”

The former soldier wanted to argue. He wanted to list all the men and women of note he could recall, but that would prove her point. Elissaios had been educated and encouraged to read all of Roma’s history. The _plebs_ could recall those in living memory, those passed on through oral tradition, and those whose names they could decipher from monuments. It was enough for the truly famous, for those who transcended time, but not enough for the men who sacrificed so much of themselves. For the men like Nicator.

There must have been more to his misfortune and downfall. Something insidious. A man who had been nobody and yet named Centurion, a man who took blades for his men and country, a man celebrated so much he was sent home with honors could not have been so easily cast aside otherwise.

Aglaia seemed to be watching all his thoughts play out on the canvas of his face. She eased him from them by reaching up and caressing his cheek.

“You pity him for choices made but do not consider that his path has brought his name to every citizen’s lips. Few can boast such a claim.” She shrugged. “From what I have been told, he seems to enjoy it.”

Elissaios did not understand this, nor could his Graecian mother understand his despondency. “He was a Centurion of Roma.”

She smiled and her cheeks dimpled. “And now he is far more to her citizens… is he less to you?”

But then again, no one understood him better.

The following morning his father did have tasks for both himself and Felix. The elder he sent on his way first, wanting him back prudently so that he could aid in the affairs of some of his clients. For Elissaios the errands were quite banal, if not pedantic. He was given a stack of letters, wax-sealed and with their addresses on a separate papyrus, to be delivered promptly. It may have been a task for his personal _servus_ at one time, but the point of his father’s commands was so that Elissaios could make the acquaintance of several of Celsus’ peers.

He was waylaid from doing this in a timely manner, however, when he heard his brother’s voice from one of the alleys sprinkled throughout their district. His first instinct had been to call out, but he was prevented from doing so when a woman’s voice spoke first.

Or, rather, spoke again. He seemed to have caught their conversation late, and, torn between continuing his tasks or tormenting his brother, Elissaios ducked out of sight but not hearing range.

“My father has made it so now that he is free to do so,” the woman said. “At my age he has already needed to raise my dowry twice and will not want to do so again.”

“Well,” the male Roman responded merrily, “perhaps you should not have threatened the last two.”

“Your jokes aren’t going to help the situation, Felix,” his friend informed him. “Those two warned they would _teach_ me to hold my tongue.”

His brother at least had the decency to sound chastised. “And your father ended the engagements because of it.”

“My _mother_ convinced him. Now that she’s gone, he’s promised me off without a care. You’ve heard the rumors of what happened to his last wife.”

“There are rumors about everyone in Roma,” Felix tried to reassure her, though he did not want to diminish her concern. “I can speak to my father; his influence might be enough to sway the decision.”

“I do not wish to trouble your family, but I would be forever grateful.”

“We have known one another since childhood. You were far more troublesome then.”

There was a sound of something thumping, and Elissaios was glad to hear his sibling getting reprimanded from someone other than himself.

Their voices were getting closer, which meant their secret conversation was drawing to a close. Elissaios had an inclination as to the identity of the woman, but still stepped forward to confirm it, which he got as Drusilla walked right into his chest. He caught her arms to straighten her, and had she not recognized him she might have given him the same verbal thrashing as his brother.

As it was, her blue eyes just lightened in recognition and excitement. “Elissaios!” They embraced, but he withheld from kissing her as he might any other close friend. It would not be proper since she was not yet married.

“Drusilla,” he greeted with a smile. “You’ve grown more beautiful!”

She laughed, her high cheekbones made all the more prominent because of it. Her dark hair was coiffed as befitting a lady of her station and her eyes lined lightly with kohl. But the flush in her skin and the deep color of her lips were all her own.

“And you’ve remained wiser than your half-wit brother.”

Elissaios grinned at the roll of his sibling’s eyes. “As if that were a challenge.”

Felix sneered, but did not interrupt.

“I’m glad to see you’re well,” Drusilla continued. She stepped back from him to regard his changes. “You look every bit the strong soldier now.”

He was the one to laugh this time as she stepped back. “I give thanks to you. Has my brother pulled you into some scheme?”

“Me?” the accused asked then gave a disbelieving snort.

“As if I would allow that,” their friend countered smoothly. “We merely passed near one another… but I should continue my day. I am sure it’s much the same for you.”

“We have both been tasked with errands,” Elissaios agreed, a little unbalanced at her hurry.

“Then I will let you do your father’s will.”

“And when will we meet next?” Felix asked from over her shoulder.

“I will try to visit your mother the day after tomorrow,” she answered.

The older man did not look pleased at that, but only gave a hum of approval as she stepped back onto the road. Elissaios waited for him to say more, and when it became clear that he would not be the one to do so, did it himself.

“Will you spend _Quinquatria_ with us?” She and her parents had often accompanied them to at least one of the feasts in years past.

But now, she just spared him a wounded smile. “It is my hope to do so. I will ask.”

More than a little worried, Elissaios could do nothing but bid her a fine day as she crossed to where she had left her _servi_ in order to talk with Felix in private. Once she was out of their sight, he turned to his sibling.

He was met with a heavy sigh. “I am safe in assuming you have heard all of our conversation?”

The younger brother nodded.

Felix frowned and leant towards him to look at the letters in his hands. “Come, we’re going in the same direction for now. I will explain before we part ways.”

His explanation was as concise as he could make it, and unsurprising in some aspects. It was all the others that _were_ surprising that left Elissaios wondering about the weight of the exchange he’d heard.

Drusilla had been a friend of theirs since their youth. They were of similar rank and birth, save their genders. She and Elissaios were even of an age. There were differences between a woman and a man both aged twenty-three, however. While a noble of his age would be expected to undergo schooling so that he may follow the proper order of the _cursus honorum_ , Drusilla should have already been wed.

Her parents had allowed her to procrastinate on the choice, though truthfully it had been her mother’s interjections that had saved her from some of the more unruly suitors. Upon her father’s insistence, she’d been engaged just before Elissaios had left for his service. He’d fully expected her to be married with young children by the time he returned.

Instead, she had not only ended that engagement but the one to follow as well. As Felix explained, both her fiancés had not been keen on her independence, mindfulness, nor her additions to conversations they had thought better led by men. Quite openly they had stated their intentions to teach her how quiet and timid a Roman wife should be. Drusilla had confided to her mother immediately and the arrangements had been called off.

However, only a few months her mother had fallen ill and passed from this life. Without her staunchest supporter and protector, their friend’s father had sought to marry her off as she would soon be too old for a man to consider without asking for a steep increase in her dowry. Since he had already raised its price twice, that had not been a prospect he’d wanted to court.

The problem came with his choice. He’d picked an older noble, a man named Tibullus, who was noted for his frigidness. That, and the death of his last two wives. The circumstances had been suspicious enough that people still whispered about them after catching a glimpse of the man in public.

Both concerned Drusilla, but without her mother petitioning for her, her father had resigned them both to the match.

That very much explained her begging Felix for Celsus’ intervention. Although she and Elissaios had been born the same year, she and his brother had become faster friends, despite the five-year age gap. Truthfully, sometimes she had seemed more devious than even he had during their childhood. It was because of the depth of their friendship that he trusted in their father willingly lending his aid.

And yet, still, something about the story rankled.

“Her father was never cruel,” he remarked.

“Nor is he now,” Felix replied. He stopped at where their paths diverted. “But she is older now and he is under the pressure of our standing.”

Elissaios frowned at that. “That is more important than his love for her?”

This put some measure of sadness into his brother’s features. “It is not; I think his fear for her being outcast drives his decision. We are at the age where our _paterfamilias_ ’ choices matter. Do not think me happy about it.”

For a moment he thought the other man meant their friend’s predicament, but then, with a start, he realized that was only part of his sudden feeling of loss. “You speak of yourself, as well? You and father have decided on a match?”

“More so father than I, but you are correct. I am engaged.”

“To whom?”

“She is called Herennia.”

Elissaios did not recall such a girl from their past. He said as much.

“Your mind does not fail you, at least not in _this_ instance.” Felix grinned at the elbow that poked him. “She is not someone you would recall because she only recently celebrated her fifteenth year.”

That stopped the former soldier in his tracks. It was not completely uncommon for such a large age gap between a pair. However, noblewomen often did not marry until they were at least eighteen.

Felix did not look happy about the fact. “I know she is considered an adult, but I did not feel as such at that age.”

Elissaios did not jokingly point out that years later he still lacked some of the qualities a Roman adult _should_ have. He did not think it would be welcome with the way the taller man sighed again.

“That is the way of things,” he murmured.

“Why did you not tell me?”

“I had planned on discussing it tomorrow?” Felix tried.

The younger Roman crossed his arms. “Are there anymore surprises waiting for me that the lot of you failed to mention in your letters?”

His brother perked a little at that, but only left him wondering with one of his taunting grins.

Celsus’ contacts had all been noble men of kind disposition. Elissaios remembered several of them from his youth, and each of them spared time for tales of his service abroad before bidding him well and a hope to see him over during the upcoming festival. By the time he crossed the threshold of his father’s home _cena_ was upon them.

And, as promised by Procus, he had indeed arrived with his family so that they might all share it together.

Children’s laughter was the first thing to hit his ears and Elissaios followed the sound to one of the side rooms where his mother, Clodia, and his niece and nephew were playing. His brother’s son, nicknamed Varro for the strength of his cry and health as an infant, was playing with wooden figures beside his sister. He was being patient and gentle with her and she seemed to have inherited these virtues judging by the way she delicately walked the toys along the mosaic underneath her.

Elissaios had left when Lucia had been only a babe. Now she was four years of age, with her mother’s wavy hair and her father’s eyes. He was not surprised when she turned them on him shyly.

Her brother did not share her worry. He rose to his feet and charged his uncle, throwing his arms about his legs with a sweet glee that warmed the man’s heart. He knelt to embrace him.

“I did not think you would remember me,” he admitted, returning the kiss gifted to him.

“I do! I missed you,” Varro replied too loudly, though nobody had the fortitude to reprimand his excitement. “Father read me the letters you sent! Did you get mine?”

“I did,” Elissaios confirmed, letting him back so he could look over the differences brought about by time. He looked as happy as he remembered. “Your handwriting has improved.”

His nephew glowed under the praise. When Elissaios rose, he clasped their hands together. “My sister has grown, too.” He pointed to where she had hidden behind her mother’s robes.

His uncle chuckled. “She certainly does not remember me, but all is well. You will reassure her for me.” He crossed to them to kiss Clodia in greeting. “I am glad to see you again.”

“As am I,” she returned, smiling prettily. She had always been regarded as one of the most beautiful women in Roma. Elissaios remembered how nervous Procus had been in her presence at the beginning of their courtship. Although she was very shy and demure, she had managed to outspeak his usually candid brother in those early days because of it.

Elissaios broke from her to kiss his mother, which gave Clodia the time to lift her daughter in her arms. With one of her plump cheeks squished against her mother’s shoulder, she regarded the new man in front of them.

“This is your uncle of whom we have told you stories,” Clodia explained. “He loved to hold you when you were a baby.”

The little girl murmured something.

“I’m very happy to meet you again, niece,” Elissaios returned in the same soft tone.

“She will learn you again in time,” Felix said from the doorway. He did not step in but pouted playfully at Varro when they all turned. “Have I lost your affections now that Elissaios has returned?”

The little boy did not let go of the former soldier, but he did hold out his free palm. “I have two hands,” he said simply.

Felix was right in that Lucia would become more comfortable in his presence. She seemed to flourish under the attention of her grandparents and by the time her patience ran out with the food she had brought one of her dolls to her returned nephew that they might play together. Elissaios, of course, could not turn down the offer.

By the end of the night his brother’s children had found his chest more comfortable to sleep upon than the numerous couches that littered the _domus_.

Procus and Clodia each took one of their children and bid their family a good night. His sister-in-law made him promise to visit with his niece and nephew soon, though. It was an easy thing to promise her.

He expected Felix to leave next, but his brother remained after their elder had left in order to speak to Celsus. To Elissaios’ wonder, he was asked to join them in their father’s study.

Perhaps his presence gave his sibling some confidence because he spoke rather plainly with their father.

“Drusilla is not content with her engagement.”

Celsus blinked, one hand holding his weight upon his desk. He glanced at Elissaios who could only lift his features and nod.

“Has she spoken to her father?” he asked his sons. At their affirmation he straightened and smoothed his toga. He did not look pleased to speak the next words: “She is well beyond the age for marriage… and care for her as we might, this choice remains her father’s. It is not as though it is a public matter to be discussed in the senate.”

“She is to wed Tibullus,” Felix pressed on, voice far more concerned than it had been earlier that day. “You know he is a lesser man. You know he will not allow her the rights she deserves.”

“What rights are those?” Celsus questioned, patiently, as if he wanted to be swayed by his son’s passion.

“Those afforded to _your_ wife!” The usually mirthful man barked before turning from them to regard the fresco on the wall. He took several long seconds to compose himself. When he turned back he looked worn, and Elissaios felt deeply in his chest his brother’s worry for their friend.

“Is our family the only one that deserves the happiness _Fortuna_ has bestowed upon us?” he wondered softly, drawing their attention. “Should we not try to help even though we have the ability?”

Their father sighed and regarded his sons with a fulfilled little smile. “Your mother and I have spoiled you for love.” They both knew he meant the example of happiness they had set for their family. They both also knew he wanted nothing short of what he’d lived for them.

And so Elissaios knew he would not deny their efforts to help another avoid an unhappy future.

Celsus tapped his fingers upon the wood. “I will seek out her father’s company tomorrow. I cannot promise more than that.”

“That is enough and all I ask,” Felix breathed. “I give thanks to you, father.”

The brothers exited that their _paterfamilias_ might retire for the night. Elissaios walked outside with him that he might commend his sibling’s selflessness. Felix had the same idea, seemingly, because he was drawn tight against his chest with a kiss pressed to his curls.

“I owe you a debt, little brother.”

Elissaios laughed up at him when they parted. “Of course you do not. We are family.” Though, he knew the sentiment would not dissuade the other noble.

Especially when, yet again, he left with one of those face-splitting grins.

It was not until the start of _Quinquatria_ that he uncovered what exactly Felix had planned. Just as he’d assumed—though that hadn’t meant he’d prepared for it—it was not a ‘gift’ he had been expecting.

Truthfully, he had been more focused on the increasing activity of the festival. It was one dedicated to Minerva, a goddess he often invoked to aid in his own lack of wisdom. His legion had been dedicated to her, which had been justified as she represented strategic warfare, upon which Romans prided themselves. This festival was not for those aspects however, but an extension of her patronage for the arts, craftsmen, and learning. Elissaios had been told in his youth it had been more rustic long ago in their history but had changed just as their empire had.

Long ago it had only consisted of one day, upon which a grand feast would have been held. This was still true of the feast, but sometime during Caesar’s dictatorship the celebrations had been extended to five days. The first was still considered holy in that no blood was shed, but since its extension a tradition had been born where the final four days were filled with gladiatorial contests. On the last day _tubilustrium_ was held in which the goddess’ sacred trumpets were blessed.

Shamefully, his mind was not as focused on the first and last days as it should have been.

His mother was faring little better than he, though, from the disgruntled sounds coming from her room. He followed them to find her perched in a seat before her large ornamental mirror. Phaedra and another _servus_ were behind her, styling her hair into one of the fashionable updos all the noble matrons wore in public.

Aglaia was very unhappy about it.

Her reflection’s eyes found him in the mirror. “I have suffered cuts and bruises in my youth borne from my love of the hunt—but the pain to which these noblewomen have accustomed themselves seems to be manufactured by the _Algea_ themselves!”

Elissaios chuckled and leant upon the wall beside him. He’d always thought she looked most beautiful with her wild tresses in their natural state, as his were. He knew Roman women coveted their curls and tried many tricks to apply the same look to their own crowns.

Still, that did not mean they would abstain from whispering about Aglaia if she attended the festival with her hair on her shoulders, not even with a modest head covering to hide it.

Her son would not suffer the _exact_ fate, but if he did not go in his _toga virilis_ he would likewise shame himself and his family. No matter how much more comfortable a regular tunic was.

“All who see you envy your natural beauty, mother,” he said.

“You must say such things, you are born from me.”

Elissaios laughed again. “It is only five days.”

“Says someone who has never had to waste his time in a chair like this.” Her time seemed to be up, however, as it took only a few seconds to apply the kohl to her eyes. It was all she allowed among the different types of makeup that were popular with noblewomen.

She was wearing some of her finest robes, as expected, and they looked a very fine pair when she linked their arms together. “Were that I could ask you not to leave my side, but I know many will redirect your attention today.”

“I apologize,” he told her in advance for the truth in her words.

“At least promise to save me if you see any Roman matrons pull me aside. If not, I fear they’ll mock me with yet another name.”

“There are worse ones than Petronia,” Elissaios said. “I do not think it so bad.”

“They find me as a stone: harsh and abrasive,” she reminded him.

“But I know you are not as such.”

“You sweeten the blow of it,” Aglaia smiled, “but we both know there is _some_ truth to the name.” Especially where Roman sensibilities were involved.

His father was waiting for them outside with two of his hired bodyguards standing nearby. Immediately he reached for his wife, and Elissaios smiled as he watched her go to him. For all the years they had been in love, had seen each other at their best and worst, his eyes still shimmered like jewels whenever he first laid them upon her for the day.

Lovingly, he gave her a chaste kiss to the forehead. “You look beautiful. I give thanks to you.” For he knew she only dressed thusly for their family name.

“Will Felix meet us?” Elissaios asked. His brother dwelt in their father’s smallest _domus_ nearer to the city center. He would remain there until they acquired a larger home for he and his wife to inhabit and fill with children after their wedding ceremony.

He tried not to think too deeply on that for the moment, though.

“Near the _Forum_ ,” his father confirmed as they walked, his bodyguards tailing them.

“This is nearby where I must have my fortune told?” his mother questioned dryly. It was another tradition for women to see such oracles during _Quinquatria_. His mother very clearly did not believe in the skill of these people, but as they arrived at one such a place she participated regardless.

Felix found them waiting outside.

“My beloved family,” he crowed, embracing and kissing them both. “Where is our mother? I can’t wait to see how beautiful—and miserable—she is.”

Elissaios laughed and motioned at the building before them. “Where were you?”

“Running some errands… and finding some friends.”

“Does that include Drusilla?”

“She is here with her father,” he confirmed. “She was whisked away to see one of these fortunetellers. I told her we would meet with her. If that is acceptable?”

“It is,” Celsus confirmed.

“And what of her father?” Elissaios asked. “You spoke with him and I did not presume to ask…”

Their _paterfamilias_ nodded. “He heard my words and said he would consider them, but without an alternative I do not think he will be swayed.”

Felix seemed to have already realized this, though there was disappointment in the furrow of his brows. The younger son felt something clench in his chest as if he were in mourning.

His brother nudged him. “There is still hope, do not dwell on it until we are certain. Not when I have acquired a gift for you.”

“Another?”

His sibling’s mouth split in that smile. “I had heard rumors that the _Basilica Aemilia_ was to be occupied for a special display this year.”

“It is,” his father confirmed with humor in his voice.

“And as a senator you were invited, of course,” Felix ascertained. “However, I procured invitations for the rest of your family as well.”

Celsus laughed. “My presence would not have been enough to get my family in?”

“In where?” Aglaia questioned from behind them. She returned her newly arrived son’s kiss before looking between them all expectantly.

“To a private showing in the _Basilica Aemilia_ ,” Felix answered. “Which we will pretend I’ve gotten us invitations to through my charm and wit.”

“And what is so important we would need invitations?” their mother asked as she returned to her husband’s side.

Here their most unruly child gestured dramatically. “A display of the gladiators that will fight in the upcoming games. They are oiled and posed as statues that we all might gawk at them. A ploy to entice betting, I assume.”

“Oh, such things are not done by the nobles,” Aglaia teased knowingly.

“Of course not!”

Elissaios stared at him. “All of the gladiators?”

“The most important.”

“Up close?”

His mother looked to her youngest expectantly. “There are many hours still before the feast. As my seat would not allow me to see the matches let alone the combatants faces, I would be interested to take advantage of this display.”

He gifted her a sweet smile full of appreciation.

Her words from earlier proved true, and though he felt a pang of guilt over it, he could not help his attention from wandering when they were welcomed into the _Basilica Aemilia_. He supposed his mind hadn’t really tried to fathom what it would look like with all those strong fighters lined up with throngs of people gathered around them, staring in open interest and curiosity. He had been inside the building several times throughout his life, but somehow it looked all the smaller and more intimate with how many people stood upon and between its marble.

The arches that led into the _forum_ proper were being barred by guards, who had been informed to allow senators or wealthy individuals inside. The inside was beautifully decorated marble with huge, pink Corinthian columns to keep it all standing. The large pillars lined the perimeter of the inner rectangular shape of the _basilica_ and in between each stood a gladiator of note.

Or he assumed they were of note, otherwise they would not be exhibited as such by their _lanista._

And Felix had been correct: they _were_ as statues, save that they were oiled and dressed in nothing more than their _subligaculum_. Had they been _servi_ , Elissaios might have felt a regret in staring at them as he did. However, these were men and women considered to be the pinnacle of Roman athletics and physical strength. They reveled in the praise on the sands and to be among the few lined within the public hall would only make the cheers for them louder.

They looked very much like the statues that stood in the upper arches of the _Amphitheatrum Flavium_ to him. The fact that those statues were all heroes, heroines, and gods of Roma was not lost on him.

He didn’t recognize the few on the pedestals closest to where they’d entered, but that was not such an odd thing when he had been away for so long. They were impressive in their own right and several wealthy citizens were milling about them, discussing their poise and the battles they had fought. But it was around the individuals in the middle that most people converged.

Elissaios did not blame them. There were six of them, three on either side of the wide main hall of the _basilica_ facing inward at each other. They were obviously of the same _familia_ , as one man and his _servi_ were walking back and forth between them. He could be no one else but their _lanista_ for how boastful his smile and words.

Before him his father was leaning towards his wife, murmuring information to her. Elissaios made to step close and listen, but his brother reeled him back and wrapped his arm around him as he liked to do.

He nodded a head at the _lanista_. “These are his fighters,” he said needlessly. “He is called Ordius.” With his free hand he swept forward and then back behind them. “His gladiators and gladiatrix are the most famous of those who fight to the death.”

Elissaios turned with him, attentive as he pointed at each. “His _gladiatrix_ is called Aspra. Supposedly she’s as sour as her name implies.”

“They do not allow women to fight to the death,” the former soldier recalled.

Felix grimaced. “Ordius claimed the life she took in the arena was an accident. None listened when I said otherwise.”

Well, that was something daunting to think about. Her face looked as though it belonged to someone without remorse, however. It was hollow and drawn, which was more noticeable for how pale she was. She may have been from the tribes up north, which would account for the lighter complexion and color of her hair. She was very tall, too, which was not the norm for Roman women.

His brother reeled him to the next, though they could not get close through the throng. “This one is called Volucer. A _Retiarius_ who is the annoyance and bane of many in the arena for how easily he ensnares them in his net. But he is nothing compared to this one.” He pointed. “A _Laquearius_. The first in… well, I’m not certain in how many years. Somehow he’s proven far deadlier than his brother.”

Elissaios did not understand that. While a _Retiarius_ fought with a net and a trident to capture his prey and stab from afar, the rare _Laquearius_ fought with a coil of rope, looped that it might catch on some part of his opponent’s armor. There had been rumors of those good enough in the past that they could catch an enemy by their legs, arms, or even neck. Once off-kilter, they unsheathed a long dagger to end the struggle. But these fighters were so rare because so few could perfect the rope.

He was marveling over the size difference of them—the first short and stumpy and the second tall yet slender, when he was turned to the three most popular of Ordius’ gladiators.

“Of his three best, two are among the _Hoplomachus_ class,” Felix explained, motioning to the first. “This is Celer. He had to be trained in this style in order to increase his fight quota because he began as a _Cestus_.”

With his large, almost oversized arms, the senator’s youngest son could believe that very easily.

His brother skipped the giant in the middle, opting for a toned looking young man, tanned and grinning ferally. The gladiators were not allowed to look at those admiring them, instead having to stare straight ahead. Most had a neutral expression, but it seemed an impossible thing for this man. Elissaios didn’t like it.

“A _Diamachaerus_ ,” Felix said. “Venator—his deadliest fighter but only because none wish to fight his largest.”

A man who fought with a sword in either hand and minimal armor. He supposed the smile was fitting; anyone who went into battle so bare had to have the spirit of an animal.

The remaining gladiator was not only large—he was massive. In all his life, Elissaios had never seen a man stand so tall or wide. He did not even think it was possible. Every part of his oiled body looked angry from his face to the bulging veins in his legs. His _lanista_ was boasting of this fact, loudly and proudly, to all who would hear.

And then his dark eyes drifted upon them and stuck on the purple stripe of his father’s _toga_. The _servus_ at his side leant up to whisper something in his ear. Once he was done his master parted the crowd and descended on their family immediately.

“Senator Verginius!”

“You know me,” their father said kindly, “or your _servus_ has an eye for faces and a memory fortified by Minerva.”

Ordius chuckled. “It is an honor to have a senator look upon my fighters. I beseech you to call me Ordius.”

Celsus hummed thoughtfully. “Many speak of them—specifically your _Diamachaerus_ and this one.” He motioned to the colossus.

The _lanista_ ’s smile turned jovial. “My greatest fighters. Venator and Typhon.”

“Typhon,” Aglaia repeated wryly. “Do you name them?”

Ordius seemed surprised not only at her contempt but that someone he’d taken for a demure Roman matron had spoken to him at all. It was very clear in the way he looked to her husband uncertainly. Celsus said nothing to alleviate his discomfort, only raised his brows as he too awaited the answer.

“O-often I do, mistress. In this case I thought the name fitting.”

“That it is, for one so monstrous in size,” she replied. “My sons tell me that he is your only fighter who has never fought a _missione_ match.”

The owner looked to where the two young men stood obediently behind their parents, though, truthfully, only one of them had shared such information. “Ah, fans of the arena? Your sons tell you truly. With such wisdom they must _cheer_ for my fighters over all others.”

Quick-witted Felix was ready to pounce on the moment. “Oh, before my little brother’s return I would have _cheered_ quite a bit for them, however I dare not now lest I invoke his ire.”

Elissaios glared at him so that he knew without words just how much had already been invoked.

The _lanista_ turned bird-like eyes on him. “Are you _not_ fond of the arena?”

“He is,” his brother answered before he could. “Particularly of Centurion Nicator.”

Ordius’ smile instantly flipped. It was jolting how severe he suddenly appeared. “I would respectfully advise against this… I would not wish for a senator’s son to celebrate a coward.”

Elissaios wished his indignation had not flared so intensely through his chest for he could feel the heat of it color his face. “He was a Centurion of Roma, who suffered grievous wounds to defend his men.” He tried to keep his voice even. “Do you slander him because of his misfortune, or do you consider this a fault of all of our empire’s soldiers?”

The owner had the sense to look ashamed. He bowed his head and held up his hands placatingly. “I have caused offense where I meant none. I do not wish to impugn his service nor any other’s. I simply refer to his tendency to fight _missione_ matches.”

This did not lessen the frenzy coiling beneath his ribcage. That only calmed when his father shifted so that he could look at his son from the corner of his eye. That outwardly simple look was far more complex than anyone outside their family could have deciphered. Elissaios could read and understand it fluently, as fluently as the two languages he spoke. Dutifully, he clamped his jaw shut and attempted to make his face as expressionless as his elder brother might with the same chastisement.

He couldn’t rightly affect disinterest, not after his fiery reply, and this shamed him. He twisted his fingers in his _toga_ , feeling a new anger at the situation around him for invoking such a feeling. He’d spoken the truth, why must his declarations be limited and emotionless when the topic was anything but?

Felix touched his elbow, but it was his mother’s action that made his outburst feel justified.

With one fine, lined eyebrow arched, she regarded her husband and then the _lanista_. “How odd, to consider a man who has taken the lives of Roman enemies but preserves the ones who entertain the city’s citizens as cowardly. I would imagine it takes greater skill to hold one’s arm than to let it fly within the confusion of the arena.”

Ordius’ mouth pursed, and he looked from her to her husband.

Celsus, with the tiniest of smiles, looked upon him expectantly for a rebuttal to that comment, as well.

The owner’s face split into some semblance of a grin. “Who can argue against such logic? Forgive me, mistress. I would be a poor _lanista_ if I were celebrate another fighter above my own.”

Aglaia hummed in consideration, which could have been taken as a sound of acknowledgement. This is the respite the man before them chose.

“I do hope you’ll visit the arena more and grow to appreciate my fighters as well, young Virginius.” Ordius nodded his head to Elissaios and then excused himself to go speak to other wealthy patrons. Certainly, he hoped he’d have more success with them.

The former soldier bowed his head as they walked onto and through the next display of fighters, though any of them hardly looked up for the brief scolding their father did.

Surprisingly enough, it was aimed at the older of the two: “Felix, you’ll do better to hold your tongue when so many of our peers can hear.”

“Do not ask for the impossible,” his wife said. “To ask him to go without teasing one of his brothers is akin to asking for him to speak without a tongue.”

“I can arrange that,” Elissaios threatened snidely, giving his brother a wry look.

Felix laughed and put an arm around him. “I would promise to behave, but I cannot guarantee anything of the sort now that we approach the _familia_ of Bellicus.”

The younger brother did not know who Bellicus was, but he wasn’t so big a fool that he could not guess. His head shot up, though his vision did not land on the gladiator he sought. First it caught on the much smaller figure on the _gladiatrix_ he had seen first upon the sands. Like the other female fighter, she was dressed more moderately than they’d allowed for them men. Still, the parts of her dark skin that were on display shone in the streams of lights that came in through the arches.

She was very lovely, even though the hard set to her jaw betrayed how displeased she was. Elissaios couldn’t blame her. He wished to give her an encouraging smile, but like the others her gaze had been coached upwards. Regardless, she did not know him and he did not want to come off as predatory like many of the other eyes upon her.

Aglaia paused to look over her, however.

“I’ve heard she’s Graecian,” Felix commented. “A few years younger and I’m sure you could’ve been a strong competitor.”

“I hunted, I did not fight in battle,” she reminded him quietly in consideration of her husband’s position.

His brother responded, but Elissaios only heard the low hum of his murmur distantly. His feet had moved him from within the range of hearing. He could not fault them, however, for they were simply following his eyes.

Centurion Nicator stood upon the next pedestal over, his skin, muscles, and hair glistening with the oil that had been applied to his tanned body. It made the lines of his scars stand out, predominantly the ones upon his torso and arms. Elissaios tried to recall from the stories where he’d been wounded in his final battle, but his eyes were stuck on the line he could see along his ribcage, peeking out from under one meaty arm.

That made him wonder. From the moment he’d seen him in the arena he had considered him a man larger than most in Roma. Now he’d seen at least two who undoubtedly towered over him and he could only assume there were more in the _Ludus Magnus_ besides. How did those giants, save for Typhon, not capture the awe of the crowds? For all of Ordius’ bluster, there seemed to be just as many, if not more people gathered around the former officer.

He knew it was deserved, but it made Elissaios feel as though he were standing just as far away as he had been the first time he’d seen the gladiator.

Too far away.

Unlike Ordius, Bellicus did not seem to be a _lanista_ who felt inclined to move throughout the crowd and cajole their patronage. At least, Elissaios saw no such man when he looked. Not that he himself would have been enough to get his attention. It was the senatorial purple stripes upon his father’s _toga_ that commandeered notice, and when his young son had become distracted he’d apparently wandered away from his family members until he was standing alone in the crowd.

Until he was just another face for Nicator to overlook.

There were others from this _familia_ to see—all men and all capable looking fighters. One seemed to fidget more than the rest, which indicated he was most likely a novice. He was tall and well-muscled, so his presence to garner attention made sense. His restlessness made a few people giggle and move closer.

That cleared a path for Elissaios to step closer, no matter that he did not know what he would do with the proximity.

“This is the one upon which you place your bets?” A man in front of him was asking. He was balding, but his wife was dressed in robes dyed with beautiful saffron and indigo which denoted their wealth.

His friend, to whom he had posed the question was of a similar caste judging by his wife’s beautiful crimson robes and glinting jewelry. “And I have yet to lose,” the man confirmed.

“Do you not worry for the _sine missione_ matches? Surely, he will fall against one of Ordius’ men.”

Elissaios frowned and shuffled nearer.

“Why would he fall? You have seen his matches. He is like a predator playing with his food.”

“And _you_ have seen those gladiators. They are the true predators. I know where I will place my money and that will not be with some sterile sensationalist.”

The first man laughed. “Good, let baseless rumors waylay your decisions. I will gladly take your money.”

The second noble chuckled amicably enough, which made sense. Judging by their apparel they had plenty of money to spare. Elissaios did not truthfully care one way or another—he only cared about the topic of their discussion. Of this implication that Nicator would be fighting _sine missione_ for his next fights. That he would be taking the life of one of Ordius’ men in the games for _this_ festival.

He would not even consider the alternative.

There was a small commotion from behind them, somewhere outside within the forum. It was an uproarious cheer and then laughter. Many within the _basilica_ turned at the sound, even more sought to follow the merriment, exiting the building and leaving it almost desolate. Those who remained did so because they were ensconced in conversation.

Ordius seemed to want to take advantage of the small crowd, lifting his voice to beckon those remaining to stand before his gladiators. Almost everyone went to him, save for Elissaios whose path forward was suddenly free of obstruction. At the end of it, the gladiator he admired remained, arms behind his back and chin up.

The young noble swallowed and stepped forward, gasping audibly when suddenly his brother was upon him again.

“There you are.”

“Felix,” he hissed.

His sibling followed his eyes. “ _Oh_ ,” he practically sang.

Before Elissaios could beg for mercy, his parents joined them. His mother still had her hands about her husband’s arm, but she drew him forward so she could look at the man before them.

“I can see why the women speak of him so often.”

Celsus walked with her. “How cruel, to comment as such when you walk beside your beloved.”

She patted his hand with condolence. “Your pride shall recover.”

“Come,” Felix whispered. “It’s as if the gods parted all of Roma for you.”

“Do not make me undertake an action that would bring the _Dirae_ down upon me,” Elissaios half-warned, half-pleaded.

There were two other men who had stayed behind, one older with a white beard and wizened face. The other was a man of Aethiopian origins, with a shorn head and kind eyes. They both had been looking towards Ordius and the remaining crowd with bemusement but straightened when they noticed the senatorial _familia_ approach.

“Salve, Senator,” the younger one greeted. They both bowed their head in unison.

Celsus returned the gesture. “Salve. You are _lanista_ Bellicus.”

“I am,” the old man confirmed. “This is my son, Lucius.”

“A strong name,” the senator chuckled. “One my father gave to me and I gave to my eldest. I am senator _Verginius_. My wife, Aglaia Virginia Petronia. And my sons—Felix and Elissaios.”

“We give thanks to you,” Lucius responded merrily. “We are honored by your interest in our gladiators.”

Celsus made a considerate hum. “My elder sons and I have seen your Centurion fight a few times. Elissaios has just returned to us from military service abroad, but he was glad to see his most recent match.” He reached back to draw his youngest forward.

“I thank you for your service,” Bellicus said, nodding to the young noble. “Where did you serve?”

Elissaios knew immediately this was a man who had also served, if not from how grizzled his appearance then by how straightforward his words. “In Bona, Germania.”

“Mm. Always trouble with those Germanic tribes,” the _lanista_ muttered gruffly. “Furthest I got were the Dacian campaigns under Traianus.”

“Truly?” Elissaios asked eagerly. “Which legion? Did you ever serve under the _imperator_ himself?”

Bellicus looked amused, and his mother touched his free arm.

“Our son fought with his uncle, and so admires any man who has stood in the path of danger.”

“It is why Centurion Nicator has become his favorite gladiator,” Felix supplied from behind them. “He always sat rapt with attention when hearing of his _heroic_ deeds.”

Mortified, though it did not seem odd to neither Bellicus nor his son, Elissaios ducked his chin closer to his chest. From under the fringe of his curls he glanced upwards to where the stationary figure towered. He did not know what he sought, these men and women were likely told not to betray their thoughts or feelings—and yet, those thin lips quirked just enough for him to notice.

Oddly emboldened, he lifted his head to look openly. “Is it true he will fight _sine missione_ for the festival?”

Bellicus’ white brows went up, creasing his forehead. “Overheard some other patrons, hm? We intended to make the announcement to the wider public tomorrow during the first round of games.”

“Is that so?” Celsus murmured. “It seems a gamble for you to take such a chance with your most lauded gladiator.”

“It is,” the _lanista_ replied, “but the choice was his.”

“So, he will fight against Ordius’ men?” Felix questioned. “Seems like you’d both have much more to lose considering those gladiators are not known _for_ losing.”

“Respectfully,” Lucius interjected, “neither is Nicator.”

“Is there not a difference between fighting men who have no fear of dying and those that do?”

“It’s a difference he knows,” Elissaios said. “He will not lose.”

They were distracted from their philosophizing by a light chuff that drew all their eyes upward.

“Something is humorous, gladiator?” the senator asked, though not in chastisement. He seemed to be just as entertained by his youngest son’s certainty.

“I ask forgiveness,” Bellicus said, though he sounded more tired than mortified. Lucius’ smile betrayed the fact that this was a common occurrence.

Fascinated, Elissaios spoke before his father could. “You need not; he can speak freely.”

Celsus and Aglaia both looked from the corner of their eyes at their son, but neither corrected the statement.

“Why did you laugh?” the young noble asked.

Nicator did not wait for permission from his _lanista_ as any other might. He let that smirk remain across his lips as he answered: “Because you have a lot of faith in a man you don’t know.”

Elissaios felt his ears heat, though he was grateful no other parts of his face did. He did not know what he expected the other man’s voice to sound like—perhaps deep, like so many heroes were described. There was a rumble to it, to be sure, but the lilt of his words made him wonder how nasally he could speak when impassioned.

He smiled at the thought.

“You speak true, faith is something my son has in abundance,” Aglaia confirmed. “Do you imply it is misplaced?”

“Not at all,” Nicator said. “I assume he’s your smartest.”

Charmed, Elissaios laughed and was glad that his family joined him.

“I would be a fool not to heed him,” Celsus chuckled. “We will pray for your victory.”

“I give thanks to you,” the gladiator replied automatically.

“Bellicus,” Aglaia said, redirecting everyone’s attention. “I’ve heard your _gladiatrix_ is Graecian.”

“That she is,” the old man confirmed. He spared Lucius a glance and then spread his arm out to invite the senator’s family to move to the other pedestal where the female fighter stood.

Elissaios had barely begun to move when his sibling’s forearm connected with the middle of his back and pushed him to remain at Nicator’s feet. When he looked to him, Felix flashed him a grin and followed their parents. When he turned back, Lucius was smiling at him kindly.

“I take it he’s the middle brother,” Nicator said, drawing the noble’s eyes to his face once again. “I’ve heard the middle ones are little shits.”

Shocked by this, the younger man let out a sharp laugh.

“Nicator,” Lucius warned wearily.

“He said I could speak freely.”

“You speak _too_ freely.”

Muffling his mirth, Elissaios waved a hand. “He doesn’t offend me, Lucius.” Rather, he just reminded the noble of his time in Germania. Of the men serving under he and his uncle and the unlikely friendships he’d made with many of them.

“That is because you have not known him nearly long enough. Give yourself but a few more moments.”

The senator’s son chuffed at that. “I prefer it that way. I would also permit you to look upon me as we speak.”

At this, the gladiator _did_ hesitate. His eyes flicked down first, gray and bright yet somehow heavy as they tracked over Elissaios’ face. They roamed over his features before taking in the rest of him. When he’d seen enough to satisfy him, he lowered his chin and their gazes met again.

Elissaios hiked his own jaw up, steeling himself to maintain the eye contact. “…Would you mind if I asked you questions? About your service?”

Nicator’s thick brows furrowed the tiniest bit. “Would that not be a question for my _lanista_?”

“…It would be rude to ask if you did not care to answer in the first place.”

The former Centurion smirked. “Ask your questions.”

Now that he’d been given permission, Elissaios felt ill-prepared. There were too many things he’d wondered about the man for years. Ever since he’d seen him in the arena he’d wondered even more. But now, to see him this close, to gauge the strength of him, to inhale the scent of oil mixed with his musk—it was as if all those thoughts had scattered in the face of his presence.

The last thing he wanted was to be made a fool in front of a man he’d so vocally supported to everyone who knew his name, however. Thinking back, his mind finally settled on a path his thoughts could follow.

“You fought in _Legio II Traianus Fortis_ ,” he recalled. “You fought in the Parthian campaigns?”

“Not for long,” Nicator agreed. “Once they ended and Traianus died, we stayed to put down the religious rebellions.”

“You mean the Jewish population. What are they like? What is the east like?”

Those big shoulders shrugged. “The east is rich and diverse… as are the people living there. Their religion is confusing, but they’ve said the same of ours.”

Elissaios could understand that. What he couldn’t understand was why the rebellions had happened when their religion had been officially recognized by emperors back to Augustus. He supposed he might never get a clear answer when he only ever heard the Roman side of it. Nor could he openly ask about a people who he was supposed to consider an enemy lest he be accused of sympathy.

No matter that it may have been true.

“Did you ever see Traianus?”

“Once.”

“Is it true you caught your Centurion’s mistake and dragged him by the throat to your _Legatus_?”

Nicator snorted in humor which pulled at the handsome laughter lines around his mouth. “It is not.”

“What about the wounds you suffered? I’ve heard you fought forty men, taking as many blades as Caesar to protect your soldiers.”

“Did you hear that, Lucius? _Forty_ men. Half the number and you may be closer to the truth.”

“But you _were_ surrounded?” Elissaios asked, though the question was rhetoric for he already knew the answer. “Are your hands free? Which wounds are from that battle? I know the one on your ribcage—” He fumbled over the words, face alight for how forward he sounded. Never mind the way he’d been analyzing the panes of that wide torso. “Forgive me.”

The _lanista_ ’s son still looked very amused, brows high on his forehead, but there was something unsure in his smile.

Nicator did not look unsure. He looked _pleased_.

His arms were free, which differed from the other gladiators on display. He withdrew them from his back, his muscles flexing as he raised his hands to physically display his answer even as he dictated. “There were two grievous wounds,” he murmured. His thick fingers skimmed over his ribcage, following the pink line of it back where it disappeared around his side. “The ribcage and here…” His other hand tapped at his opposite shoulder.

Elissaios felt rooted, almost hypnotically mesmerized by the slow movement of the older man’s hands over his own skin.

“There were others,” he continued, motioning to his arms and thighs. “But there are _none_ on my back.”

The young noble instantly understood the reference to the infamous Spartan creed and he did not conceal his grin, but wore it openly, enchanted as he felt.

“Elissaios.” _Somehow_ , he managed to look towards his father’s call. “Come, we’re to meet Procus.”

“I—” he began to argue, but at his father’s surprise he stifled the objection. “Of course, father.” He turned back to see Nicator’s eyes drifting from his family back to his face. “…I give thanks to you for answering my questions. I will pray to Victoria that you might win.”

The man above him tilted his head in gratitude.

There was more Elissaios wanted to say. His lips were pursed to do so, but he knew he no longer had the time. Curtly—and awkwardly—he turned to nod his thanks to Lucius before swiveling on his heel to catch up with his family as they exited through one of the many arches back into the forum.

There were many festivities happening under Sol’s light. Some were preparing for the feast, others were enjoying the dancers scattered about, and between it all children chased one another with high-pitched laughter. Elissaios saw this all, and yet mentally he was still within that _basilica_ asking all the questions he would have had he more time.

But how could he those questions for how personal they were? How to ask a man how he became _infamia_? To ask him to differentiate between the truth and falsehoods of the various rumors?

And yet the only way to know the truth was being told it by the alternations of that rumbling, nasally voice.

His family must have sensed his disconnect, for they did not prod him to comment on their surroundings. Even Felix left him alone as their father was beckoned aside to speak with another senator. His wife engaged her counterpart politely, but his sons stood to the side, quiet and attentive. Or pretending to be so, in Elissaios’ case.

His sibling excused them after a few minutes, with the promise of seeking out their elder. He patted Elissaios on the shoulder and sent him one way while he went the other, knowing that their father would not be moved from that conversation for some time. The younger felt guilty for leaving his mother, but so long as she was not in a group, he figured she may yet forgive him.

Mortifyingly, his path brought him back towards the _basilica_. He did not allow himself to slip back inside, for he did not want to be spotted returning as if he were a lost faun. Instead, he halfheartedly looked around and allowed himself to listen to the conversations surrounding him, many of which were people who had been equally as impressed with the gladiators.

Between two of the buildings, hidden in the shade, he stumbled upon two women who shared their appreciation of the fine bodies louder than any he’d heard. They must have thought him farther away, for his presence did not seem to bother them nor discourage them from speaking plainly.

_Very_ plainly.

“He is too large for you!” one whispered in taboo delight. “Your husband would see the marks upon you!”

“How? You know he is far fonder of the brothels than our bedroom.”

“You’re filthy,” the first laughed.

“Do not tell me you haven’t imagined one of them warming your bed.” There was a conspiratorial giggle. “Especially the Centurion.”

Elissaios felt his face light aflame.

“I have not! You seem to desire him enough to consider slipping away for a night!”

“Would that I could,” the first sighed. “The last woman supposedly repulsed him so much that he refuses to entertain another.”

“Enough. I do not wish to know from where you have learned this information.”

The young noble hurried away then, wondering at why his face felt hotter than it ever had. Hotter even than when he’d stumbled upon his parents’ _servi_ entangled together.

No matter the reason, no matter how shaken he felt from his eavesdropping, he could not deny that the women had given him an idea.

It was not an idea he acted upon immediately but agonized over that night as he lay awake. The following day he kept it to himself, disclosing no hint of it in his mannerisms or conversations. Though his family had asked him his opinions of the gladiators, specifically Nicator, he had been able to keep his tone even and light. Not even Felix had been able to detect the instability he was hiding.

And throughout those many hours he went back and forth with this idea because he could not pretend it was anything but childish and foolish.

Yet, still, the moment he stepped into the _Amphitheatrum Flavium_ to watch the first of the festival’s games, he wondered why feeling childlike glee was a shameful thing. And when the games came and went without Nicator upon the sands he could not feel foolish for missing the sight of him. And it seemed a simple thing for his mind to make its decision.

He waited until the following day when his family departed for separate sights and tasks. They most likely expected him to go to the arena or to seek out his friends like Spurius. He was content to let them believe so. Just as he was content to let everyone around him believe he was anyone but a senator’s son.

In his plainest _toga_ he could be anyone, and without the well-known faces of his family members accompanying him, none would see him as otherwise.

He fit in easily enough among the crowd in the _Ludus Magnus_ , plentiful as it was. He saw several men in _togas_ here and several women beside. It was a closer view than they would ever get in the arena and so many came to watch the gladiators train up close.

Elissaios did not try to find a seat. Instead, he remained closer to one of the many entrances, tucked against the railing that divided the spectators from the lower level of the sparring area. He could see the figures and faces of all the participants clearly, including those he’d seen in the _basilica_ the first day of the festival.

Although he wasn’t the largest, Elissaios spotted Nicator instantly.

He was standing near the _gladiatrix_ Rhoda, and judging by what he could see, they were taking lessons from one another. The former soldier did not know if this was a common practice, but he watched for long moments as they traded blows and words. At several points the Germanic gladiator would approach, though he was apparently rebuked by each of the duo in turn. He did not seem upset at this but left with a smile each time.

After allowing himself to watch his fill, Elissaios turned from the sight to wander into the halls of the _Ludus Magnus_. It was within the lower levels that he was stopped by a tall man with heavily accented Latin.

“Forgive me but I cannot allow you to pass. May I escort you back to the viewing area?”

“Forgive _me_ ,” Elissaios said, affecting his father’s platitudes as well as he could. “I have business with Lucius, _lanista_ Bellicus’ son… Perhaps I should have sought someone out sooner, but I suppose most are busy with the festivities.” He sounded horribly forced, but the man before him did not seem to sense it.

“Ah, it is no wonder then. Follow me, I will take you to him.”

“I give thanks to you,” the young noble said and did as instructed.

Lucius was not with his father, but he was standing within his office, hunched over his desk while he perused some scrolls. He cared not for the footsteps approaching and only looked up at the call of his name. His dark eyes moved between the men, settling upon Elissaios until they filled with recognition.

That made it a little easier to name his request once they were left alone.

He sneaked from his home later that night, long after his parents and the _servi_ had fallen to sleep. He’d opted to dress in one of his less expensive tunics to walk Roma’s darkened streets. Because of the festival there were several people still milling about, enjoying entertainers and drink. Without his _toga_ he was able to flit through them unnoticed. He even had to laugh off a few drunken attempts to get him to join various groups in their revelry.

Other than that, his trip to the _Ludus Magnus_ was uneventful. He was able to walk right in, find Lucius, and follow him to the upper floors of the building. The rooms there were nice, and by the sounds of it several gladiators were making use of the luxury.

Elissaios did well not to blush at some of the louder moaning, but he was very grateful when he was led down to the end of the hall and away from all the noise.

The room Lucius left him in had a lush couch, made of expensive woodwork and topped with plush, crimson pillows and cushion. For lack of anywhere else to go, Elissaios went towards it and sat gingerly, surprised to find something so nice in a school for gladiators. But, then again, perhaps he shouldn’t have been considering the conversation that had inspired him to come in the first place.

He was nervous, and he would have grown more so had his ears not picked up on Nicator’s voice as he and Lucius neared the door.

“I told you I didn’t want to do this anymore,” the gladiator said discontentedly.

“I remember,” Lucius replied, “and I’ve just told you this is not the same.”

“That’s _all_ you’ve told me.”

“Had you not spent all day training and then the last few hours bathing I might have had time to explain.”

“I was not bathing for _hours_.”

“Seemed close enough. You’re very prissy for a gladiator.”

“Are you blind to all the of the dirt and filth I fight upon and against?”

“I do not care how long you spend in the bath. I’m explaining why you know nothing about this meeting.”

“Meeting?”

Lucius did not divulge more, finding it easier to open the door and let the gladiator see for himself. Nicator stepped inside, dressed in only a _subligaculum_. His scent wafted in with him and it smelled freshly washed and this, as well as his wet hair, indicated that he very much did just come from the baths despite his protest. His eyes instantly went to the couch and Elissaios who sat upon it. This stopped him in his tracks and one thick brow hiked up his forehead.

The _lanista_ ’s son did not enter but ducked his head in to speak briefly to the noble. “You have two hours… but if you tire of him before that I’ll be in the room across the hall.” Then he shut the wooden door and locked it.

Elissaios thought it must have been for security purposes, but it was a brief thought with the gray scrutiny he was under.

“You?” Nicator near demanded.

“Salve,” the younger man replied, giving a tremulous smile. “I’m relieved you remember me… I’m called Elissaios.”

“The senator’s boy?”

“My father is a senator,” he agreed, patiently.

Silence befell them, a palpable one that seemed to stretch the seconds they spent staring at one another into an eternity. Elissaios might have enjoyed that, had those brows not lowered to help contort the older man’s face into a venomous scowl. The shadows formed by the minimal lamps hanging within the room made it look even more severe.

“And how much did you pay, _patrician_?” the gladiator asked, the title coming out as a sneer.

Elissaios recoiled slightly, both physically and mentally. Still, he heard himself murmur the amount. It had not been a paltry sum, but he had not even balked at it now that he thought back on it.

Nicator scoffed. “That’s my going rate? And you didn’t hesitate to pay it, did you, boy?”

The young noble’s face bloomed with color, sparked by a sharp indignation in his chest. He hated the weight of those words coming from someone he’d so admired and he found himself rising to his feet to repel them. “I am a man of Roma, not a child. I fought for her for three years. If I’ve offended you—”

“ _If_ you’ve offended me?” the gladiator snapped. He closed in on the smaller man, taking two long, purposeful strides to do so.

Elissaios’ first instinct was to retreat, but the back of his knees were already against the couch. He steadied himself on that as if it were an anchor, straightening his spine to appear as tall as he could. He held his chin up and met the eyes glowering down at him.

“You think because of your position—because of _mine_ —that you can buy whatever you want? That I’ll shirk my dignity because I’m _told_ to? I’m _infamia_ , not a _servus_.” The man was so infuriated that his muscles were shaking, though his voice did not. “I may fight for money, but I will _not_ lie under some _boy_ so that you can gloat about your paid conquest.”

The malformed energy left Elissaios in a rush, leaving his shoulders drooping and his mind undeniably confused. He emphasized this by blurting the only thing he could: “What?”

“Did you think this would be an easy thing? That I would bend over for—”

“That is not—! I only wanted to talk to you freely, that’s why I paid!”

Nicator did not believe him. “You paid that amount to _talk_.”

“I did!” Elissaios assured, holding up his palms. “I would never do anything to demean you!” And what he implied _would_ be the most shameful way to belittle another man of higher rank if word of it ever spread. “You fought under _Legatus Legionis_ Antias—he’s the one who petitioned you to become Centurion because he recognized your _virtus_ …” He could list dozens of facts, but he was not sure how convincing it would be. There was always the chance his knowledge may have just reaffirmed the gladiator’s distrustful belief.

“He chose me because I was useful.”

The younger man’s tongue seemed to trip over his teeth. “I…well, assuredly, because your men—”

“You really came here to talk,” Nicator repeated in incredulity. He took a step back to look the other Roman over, taking note of the finery of his tunic and the desperate glean in his eyes.

“I did,” Elissaios promised. “I had more questions about… about your time fighting and your return to Roma.”

“You paid _that much_.” The gladiator crossed his arms over his chest, blocking the view of both the muscle and hair there. “Do you not have somewhere else you could waste your money? Believe whatever rumors you prefer.”

“I prefer the truth,” the former soldier said boldly.

Nicator paused and examined his face. “Why? Is it so hard to believe your hero is impotent and wasted away all his pay?”

Floundering, Elissaios twisted his fingers in the skirt of his tunic. “If—If that is the truth, I would not judge you for mistakes or things you can’t help…”

“And the truth of all my heroics?”

“I know your wounds were embellished, but—”

“All those stories were because all the citizens of Roma have in abundance is time to gossip.” He shrugged and crossed to the couch, sitting down upon the cushion with his legs spread and expression unrepentant. “I fought and the men in my century liked me. When our Centurion fucked up and got some of them killed, I confronted him. I was going to beat him bloody but Antias got there first. I was in the right place at the right time.”

The other day he’d told Lucius he had been around enough soldiers to find no offense in their blunt demeanor. He was finding that untrue now. He did not think he’d ever spoken so candidly with someone who was not one of his brothers. With his father’s friends and even the officers of his uncle’s legion there had always been some form of courtesy. In Roma there was an elegance to the way the nobles spoke that sometimes bordered on poetry. For Elissaios, who had always felt a step behind, they’d often felt like riddles.

“The men choose their leader,” he argued, not trusting this version of events he’d heard at least fifty times over. Certainly, some of the retellings differed, but they had all agreed on Nicator being chosen by them—he’d been _named_ by them!

“And the men,” the gladiator drawled, “agreed with Antias who put my name up after convincing me to agree by explaining how much more money I’d make.”

The young noble’s heart clenched and that made him feel foolish. People needed money to live, after all. Slowly, he lowered himself onto the opposite end of the couch.

“This upsets your _patrician_ sensibilities?” Nicator wondered. “Are you this naïve? Do you believe all who fight do so primarily because they love Roma? Or are you aware of how the wealthy benefit from people like me wasting their lives away for an empire that finds them disposable?”

Elissaios stared at him in open pain. He’d taken great pride in his service, but now he felt utter shame to admit even to himself that he’d only weighed his three years against the twenty of other soldiers in passing. He’d never considered them lesser, but now he realized he’d never considered them _enough_.

“I don’t find you disposable,” he whispered, hurt.

The former Centurion propped his elbow on the closest armrest and rolled his neck. The joints within popped audibly. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“You’re barely a man and it shows. You’ve been told legends and myths all your life. You’ve benefitted from the institutions of Roma and so love them. And you’ve projected all of this onto me.”

“I haven’t,” Elissaios snapped, obstinate.

“Then why do you look so near to tears?”

“I am not—you think I would let myself be hurt by your boorish behavior?” He thanked his mind for remembering such a word, he only hoped he’d used it correctly.

The big man chuckled, clearly not bothered by an insult he’d heard before. “What do you want, little noble? Me to pretend?”

“A smarter man might have,” Elissaios retorted.

Nicator laughed again, sharp and genuine. The younger Roman wished they had begun with that—that this entire conversation had lasted of nothing but that sound traded between them.

It was supposed to have gone that way.

But it hadn’t, and it wouldn’t. Not with a man who so clearly had nothing but disdain for him based solely on his birth and upbringing.

Mortified and dejected, Elissaios rose.

“Leaving?” Nicator asked, spreading his free arm along the back of the couch. He did not sound disappointed. “After you paid so much?”

The noble went to the door and banged the side of his fist against it sharply, barking Lucius’ name.

“I would hate to make you suffer a _patrician_ any longer,” he said to the fighter. “Keep the money since it’s the only thing you care for.”

The door opened before the gladiator could respond and Elissaios pushed out into the hall without answering Lucius’ inquiry. The Aethiopian cursed, once to himself and another presumably aimed at his charge, before he hurriedly locked the door so that he could chase down his young patron.

Elissaios did not care for his apologies or placations, nor did he take the coin purse the other man so frantically tried to return. The feel of it would only sicken him worse and his stomach already felt as though it had become filled with cold, heavy marble. Let it go to the gladiator that he might spend it on women or gambling or whatever activities he’d done to get him to the rank of _infamia_ in the first place.

If he were intelligent, he’d pocket it and use it to buy his freedom and be gone from sight and mind. The bitter part of Elissaios wished he would so he would not have to see the physical reminder of his folly.

But the rest of him, the whole of him, the _heart_ of him rallied against the spiteful thought.


End file.
